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The  Madrasa  of  Shdh  Husayn,  Isf&han 


FROM  MOSCOW  TO 
THE   PERSIAN  GULF 

BEING  THE  JOURNAL  OF  A 
DISENCHANTED  TRAVELLER 
IN  TURKESTAN  AND   PERSIA 

BY 

BENJAMIN    BURGES    MOORE 

"HE   THAT   INCREASSTH    KNOWLEDGE   INCREASETH   SORROW" 


WITH  160  ILLUSTRATIONS  AND  A  MAP 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW    YORK   AND  LONDON 

Ube  Knicfterbocl^er  press 
1915 


Copyright,  1915 

BY 

BENJAMIN    SURGES    MOORE 


TCbe  Itnfcfecrbocfecr  press,  IKcvo  Corli 


TO 

MY   MOTHER 


"  The  path  of  a  good  woman  is  indeed  strewn  with 
flowers;  but  they  rise  behind  her  steps,  not  before 
them." 


2031460 


"  It  was  the  unstinted,  and  instructed,  and  ex- 
perienced hospitality  of  the  English  .  .  .  that 
made  my  visit  profitable  and  enjoyable." 

Collier:  The  West  in  the  East. 


FOREWORD 

All  the  books  I  have  ever  read  about  Persia, 
have  been  more  or  less  rose-coloured;  encourag- 
ing persons  who — like  myself — dreamed  of  how 
they  might  one  day  visit  the  land  of  Iran,  hallowed 
by  history  and  by  memories  of  the  lovely  art  it 
produced  in  epochs  that  shall  never  return.  When 
at  last  I  travelled  in  Persia,  I  found  it  disappoint- 
ing; nevertheless  my  journey  was  so  instructive, 
so  diversified  by  amusing  incidents,  and  offered 
so  much  that  was  curious  or  picturesque,  I  would 
not  willingly  have  foregone  it.  I  have  therefore 
thought  that  pages  whose  one  aim  is  sedulously 
to  describe  the  country  as  it^  really  is,  might 
have  a  value  of  their  own— however  slight — not 
possessed  even  by  masterpieces  of  rhythm  and 
romance  such  as  Loti's  Vers  Ispahan;  while 
stating  frankly  all  that  was  disagreeable,  I  have, 
however,  endeavoured  to  bring  out  the  beauty  of 
many  places  in  Persia,  and  avoid  in  my  narrative 
the  monotony  which  so  frequently  characterized 
the  scenery. 

It  would  be  a  subject  for  regret,  should  anything 
I  have  written  convey  the  idea  that  I  consider  my 
unfavourable  opinion  of  Persia  and  her  people 
definitive  even  for  myself;  I  have  merely  noted  a 


viii  Foreword 

traveller's  passing  impressions  as  accurately  as 
possible,  not  pretending  to  judge  a  historic  race 
by  the  observation  of  a  single  visit. 

I  leave  the  book  in  the  shape  of  a  joiimal, 
believing  it  to  be  both  a  form  that  has  in  English 
greater  novelty  than  that  of  more  ambitious 
works,  and  also  one  permitting  a  more  personal 
expression. 

B.  B.  M. 


New  York, 
May,  1915. 


CONTENTS 

L- 

—Moscow   TO   ASKABAD    . 

PAGE 
I 

II.- 

— ASKABAD   TO    MaSHHAD 

.              71 

III.- 

— Mashhad  to  Tihran    . 

•           119 

IV.- 

— TiHRAN  TO  Isfahan 

.          223 

V.- 

—Isfahan  to  ShIraz 

.          291 

VI.- 

— ShIraz  to  BushIr 

.          381 

Index          .... 

.     445 

ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

The   Madrasa   of   Shah   Husayn,    Isfahan 

Frontispiece 

The  Kremlin  from  the  Kamoneny  Bridge, 

MosKov  .......        6 

The  Vasily  Blasjenny  Church  from  within 

the  Kremlin  ......         6 

Inside  the  Kremlin,  Moskov.  The  Arch- 
angelsky  Cathedral  and  the  Ivan  Veliky 
Tower 7 

St.  Saviour's  Church  from  the  Kremlin, 
Moskov  .......         7 

A  Typical  Church,  Moskov        .         .         .10 

The  Troitsco-Sergiyevskaya  Lavra  near 
Moskov  .......       10 

The  Tomb  of  TImur  Lang,  Samarqand        .       11 

The  Grave  of  TImur  Lang,  Samarqand       .       11 

The  Great  Mosque.  The  Registan,  Samar- 
qand      .......       38 

The  Mosque  of  Ulug  Beg.    The  Registan, 
Samarqand      ......       38 

xi 


xii  Illustrations 

The  Mosque  of  Bibi  Khanum,  Samarqand 

Mosque  of  Shah  Zinda,  Samarqand 

A  Mosque  and  a  Hawz,  Bukhara 

Natives  in  the  Registan,  Bukhara 

The  Registan,  Bukhara 

A  Group  in  the  Registan,  Bukhara 

A  Prayer  Portico  and  Hawz,  Bukhara 

A  Hawz  with  View  of  the  Kabjan  Mosque 
Bukhara         ..... 

Minaret  of  the  Kabjan  Mosque,  Bukh.\ra 

An  Entrance  to  the  Bazars,  Bukhara 

A  Group  of  Bukhariats 

Turksmen  at  a  Station  near  Askabad 

BajgIran  at  Sunrise  .... 

A  Persian  Chai  Khana  or  Tea-House,  Aska 
bad  to  Masshad 

Imam  QulI 

Late   Afternoon   on   the    Uplands    above 
Imam  Quli       ..... 

A  Kabyle  in  Persia:   Said  in  the  Snow 

"A  Lodging  for  a  Night" 

The  Gates  of  Masshad 

The  Shrine  of  Imam  Rid.\,  Masshad  . 


PAGE 

39 
39 
48 
48 
49 
49 
58 

58 
59 
59 
78 
78 
79 

79 
88 

88 

89 

89 

106 

106 


Illustrations  xiii 


PAGE 


The  Citadel  of  Tus   .         .         .         .         .107 

The  First  but  not  the  Last  Time  we  Stuck 

IN  THE  Mud    ......     107 

The  Mosque  of  Qadamgah  .         .         .130 

Qadamgah    .......     130 

The  Dyers'  Gate,  Nishapur        .         .         .131 

Entrance  to  the  Governor's  House,  NIsha- 
PUR  .......     131 

A  Servant  with  the  Governor  of  NIshapur's 

Falcon 138 

The  Governor  of  NIshapur's  Head-Servant  .     138 

Mosque  OF  Imam  Zada-i-Mahruq,  NIsHAPUR    .     139 

The  Grave  of  'Umar  Khayyam,  NTshapur  .     139 

View  from  the  Grave  of  'Umar  Khayyam, 

Nishapur         ......     144 

Where  'Umar  Khayyam  is  Buried.  The 
Mosque  of  Lmam  Zada-i-Mahruq,  NTsha- 
pur .......     144 

A  Road  in  Khurasan  ....     145 

What  Happens  to  a  Carriage  when  the 
Horses  Try  to  Drag  it  out  of  the  Mud     .     145 

A  Persian  Post  Driver  in  Full  Livery      .     172 

Carrying  the  Mail  in  Khurasan        .         .172 

Exchanging    a    Broken    Diligence    for    a 

Springless  Fourgon, 'Abbas  Abad  .     173 


xiv  Illustrations 


PAGE 


The  Burial-Place  of  BayazId,   Saint  and 
Mystic,  Bustam      .         .         .         .         .173 

The    Burial-Place  of   BayazId   from   the 
Mosque  Roof,  Bustam   .         .         .         .188 

A  Group  of  Notabilities,  Bustam      .         .188 

A  Tower  beside  the  Mosque,  Bustam        .     189 

Watching  a  Firang!  at  the  Tomb  of  BayazId, 
Bustam 189 

The  Citadel  of  Bustam      .         ,         .         .196 

Late  Afternoon,  from  the  Fortress,  Dam- 
ghan 196 

The  Ribat  of  AnushIrwan.         .         .         .197 

The  Shah's  Mosque,  Samnan      .         .         .197 

Court  of  the  Shah's  Mosque,  Samnan       .     206 

Tomb  of  an  Imam  Zada,  Samnan  .         .     206 

Minaret  of  the  Assembly  Mosque,  Samnan,     207 

The  Governor's  Palace,  Samnan        .         ,     207 

The  Ruins  of  Lasgird,  the  Fortress  City      212 

My  Third  Vehicle,  Masshad  to  Tihran     ,     212 

A  Slight  Interruption  on  a  Khurasan  Road    213 

Aghajan  Fording  a  Stream         .         .         .213 

A  Street  in  Tihran    .....     228 

The  Sardara  Pass       .         .         .         .         .     228 


Illustrations  xv 

PAGE 

Travelling  in  a  Fourgon  without  Springs  229 

The  River  and  the  Shrine  of  Fatima,  Qum  .  229 

Doorway  of  the  Mosque,  Qum  .         .  236 

The  Shrine  of  Fatima,  Qum        .         .         .  236 


The  Joys  of  Travel  in  Persia  . 

In  the  Desert  near  Kashan 

Said  Drawing  Water  in  the  Desert  . 

The  Town  of  Khafr  .... 

The  Dervishes  of  Khafr   . 

Husayn  and  "The  Footman" 

Pul-i-Khaju,  Isfahan  .... 

The  Maidan-i-Shah,  Isfahan 

A  Dervish  in  Bukhara 

The  British  Consulate,  Isfahan 

Hindu  Suwars  of  the  British  Consulate 
Isfahan  ...... 

Courtyard    of    Shah    Husayn's    Madrasa 
Isfahan  ...... 

The  Bridge  of  'AliverdI  Khan,  Isfahan 

The  Maidan-i-Shah,  with  the  Shah's  Mosque 
Isfahan  ...... 

The  'AlI  QapC,  Isfahan 


237 
237 
262 
262 
263 
263 
266 
266 
267 
270 

270 

271 
271 

276 
276 


xvi  Illustrations 


pac;e 


The  Maidan-i-Shah,  with  the  Entrance  to 
THE  Bazars,  from  the  'AlT  Qapu,  Isfahan  .     2'j'] 

The  Lutf  Allah   Mosque,   Maidan-i-Shah, 
Isfahan  .......     277 

Group  in  the  Court  of  the  Chihil  Situn, 
Isfahan 280 

Wall-Painting  in  the  'Ali  Qapu,  Isfahan         281 

A  Street  in   Isfahan,   with   View  of    the 
Shah's  Mosque        .....     281 

The  Chihil  Situn,  Isfahan  .         .         .     284 

Mauruz  Holiday  Crowd  outside  the  Mad- 
rasa  OF  Shah  Husayn,  Isfahan      .         .     284 

Holiday  Crowd  Watching  the  Foreigners; 
Madrasaof  Shah  Husayn,  Isfahan         .     285 

Isfahan!  in  Holiday  Garb  at  the  Bridge  of 
AlIverdi  Khan,  Isfahan.         .         .         .     285 

The  Pul-i-Khaju,  Isfahan  ....     290 

Old  Pigeon  Tower  near  Isfahan        .         .     290 

An  IsfahanI  Stork  with  a  Feeling  for  Dec- 
orative Effects     .         .         .         .         .291 

My  Lodgings  at  Mahyar    .         .         .         .291 

A  Typical  Persian:    My  Landlord  at  Mah- 
yar   318 

A  City  of  the  Apocalypse:  Yazdikhast      .     318 

Early    Morning   at   Yazdikhast    from    my 
Lodgings         ......     319 


Illustrations  xvii 


PAGE 


Natives  of  Yazdikhast  with  the  Hlad 
tufangchi  in  the  centre      .         .         -319 

Shulgistan  at  Sunrise        ....     324 

My  Caravan  Leaving  Shulgistan       .         .     324 

The  Way  Haji  Abbas,  my  Charwadar,  Pre- 
ferred TO  Ride      .....     325 

An  Abandoned  Garden:  The  Pavilion  at 
Sarmak 325 

The  Tomb  of  Cyrus  the  Great,  Pasargadae     350 

Goats  and  Children  Guard  the  Tomb  that 
Alexander  of  Macedon  Entered  with 
Reverence      ......     350 

Ruins  of  Pasargadae  .         .         .         -351 

The  Ruins  of  Pasargadae  .         .         .         .351 

The  Cliff-Hewn  Tombs  of  the  Ach/emenian 
Kings,  Nagsh-i-Rustam  .         .         .     362 

The  First  Tomb,  Nagsh-i-Rustam      .         .       362 

The  Tomb  of  Darius  Hystaspes,  Nagsh-i- 
Rustam  .......     363 

Sasanian  Sculptures,  Nagsh-i-Rustam         .     363 

The  Archaeologist's  Despair      .         .         .     368 

Sasanian  Sculptures  near  the  End  of  the 

Cliff,  Nagsh-i-Rustam    ....     368 

Fording  a  Stream  on  the  Way  to  Persepolis, 

Plain  of  Mervdasht       ....     369 


xviii  Illustrations 


PAGE 


ZOROASTRIAN  FiRE  AlTARS,    NaGSH-I-RuSTAM  .  369 

Sasanian  Cliff  Sculpture,  Nagsh-i-Rajab  374 

Ruins  of  Persepolis  .....  374 

The  Portico  of  Xerxes,  Persepolis  .         .  375 

Palace  of  Darius,  Persepolis    .         .         .  375 

Palace  of  Xerxes,  Persepolis    .         .         .  380 

The  Audience  Hall  of  Xerxes  and  the  Plain 

OF  Mervdasht  in  a  Storm,  Persepolis  380 

Effigy  of  the  King,  Persepolis  .         .381 

A  Persian  Plough,  Plain  of  Mervdasht      .  381 

Tang-i-Allahu  Akbar          ....  388 

A  Namesake  of  Timur  Lang:  Timur  TabrIzI  388 

Graves  in  the  Enclosure  of  Hafiz's  Tomb, 

ShIraz     .......  389 

The  Tomb  of  Hafiz,  ShIraz         .         .         .  389 

The  View  from  Hafiz's  Tomb,  ShIraz         .  396 

Garden  of  the  Forty  Dervishes,  ShIraz   .  396 

Inside  the  Garden  of  the  Seven  Dervishes, 

ShIraz     .......  397 

Garden  of  the  Seven  Dervishes,  on  the  Out- 
skirts of  ShIraz     .....  397 

The  Tomb  of  Sa'dI,  outside  ShIraz    .         .  402 

Windows  of  the  Room  where  Sa'dI  is  Buried, 

ShIraz     .......  402 


TEC-ARTbiuDiOS,  Inc. 

Illustrations  xix 


A  Hospital  in  the  Ruins  of  a  King's  Pleas- 
ure Dwelling         .....     403 

Palace  of  Karim  Khan,  ShIraz  .         .         ,     403 

Tomb  of  Karim  Khan,  in  the  Garden  of  his 

Palace,  Shiraz        .....     406 

Ceiling  of  the  Tomb  of  Karim  Khan,  Shiraz    406 

Tiles   in   Inner   Court:   Palace   of   Karim 

Khan,  ShTraz  ......     407 

Where  Telegraph  Instruments  have  Taken 
THE  Place  of  a  King's  Wives.  The  Anda- 
RUN  OF  Karim  Khan,  ShIraz  .         .         .     407 

One  Persian  Garden  not  in  Ruins:  Bagh-i- 

Iram,  ShIraz  .         .         .         .         .         .410 

Forecourt,  Bagh-i-Iram,  ShIraz  .         .     410 

The  Upper  End  of  the  Great  Alley,  Bagh-i- 

Iram,  ShIraz  .         .         .         .         .         .411 

A  Lateral  Alley,  Bagh-i-Iram,  Shiraz  .     414 

Bagh-i-Iram,  ShIraz     .         .  .         .  .415 

Mills  outside  ShIraz  .         .  .         .  .418 

Chinar-i-Rahdar.         ,         .  .         .  .418 

One  of  our  Escort,  'Ali  Khan,  Descending 
A  KuTAL.         ......     419 

View  from  a  Kutal  Looking  down  on  the 

Cai^avanserai  of  Mian  Kutal        .  419 

Women  Travelling  in  Kajawas  .         .     422 


XX  Illustrations 

PAGB 

Our  Caravan  and  Escort  Passing  a  Gendar- 
merie Post  near  Kazarun     .         .         .     422 

The  Kutal-i-Mihr 423 

A  Woman  Churning  on  the  Road  to  Kahna 
TakhtI    .......     423 

The  Peaks  above  the  Dalaki  River  near 
the  Kutal-i-Mihr  .....     430 

The  DalakI  River  near  the  Kutal-i-Mihr    431 

A  Sentinel  on  the  Roof  of  a  Gendarmerie 
Post  Guarding  a  Bridge  over  the  DalakI 
River      .,....,     431 

The  Dock  at  Bushir 438 

A  Pleasant  Persian  Punishment:  Yaching  .     439 

Map Ai  end 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD 

February  8'."  19 14. 

THE  train  has  just  left  Moscow  station,  and  I 
am  really  started  on  my  way  to  Turkestan 
and  those  cities  of  sonorous  name,  Samar- 
qand  and  Bukhara.  Fortunately,  I  decided  to 
leave  on  a  day  when  the  Compagnie  Internationale 
des  Wagons-Lits  runs  a  car,  in  which  it  is  possible 
to  open  the  double  windows  of  my  sleeping- 
compartment.  Only  those  who  have  travelled  in 
Russia  in  winter  can  realise  the  extent  of  this 
boon;  in  Russian  carriages  belonging  to  the  state, 
the  double  windows  are  hermetically  closed  and 
screwed  in  place,  so  that  no  ingenuity  suffices  to 
open  them  so  much  as  a  crack;  to  seal  them  still 
more  effectually,  a  strip  of  heavy  green  felt  is  hung 
across  the  lower  half,  the  only  possible  source  of 
ventilation  being  a  tiny  vent  in  the  roof.  At 
either  end  of  the  car  an  immense  stove,  hidden  in 
a  closet  and  filled  with  logs,  blazes  day  and  night. 
The  poor  foreigner,  not  trained  to  Russian  ways 
from  infancy,  lies  in  these  breathless  ovens  with 

3 


4         MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

reeling  head,  panting  and  perspiring  like  a  stricken 
dog.  Four  days  of  this  misery  have  been  spared 
me  by  the  enlightened  windows  of  the  sleeping- 
car  company.  My  compartment,  although  small, 
is  a  comfortable  place  in  which  to  pass  a  hundred 
hours  crossing  the  plains  of  Asia.  The  car  is 
composite,  half  first,  and  half  second-class  car- 
riages; and  in  the  compartment  next  to  me  is 
Said,  my  Algerian  valet, — as  adroit  a  servant  and 
as  faithful  a  follower  as  any  man  could  wish.  I 
can  see  no  difference  between  his  compartment 
and  mine,  save  the  colours  of  the  coverings,  and 
the  fact  that  by  paying  two  supplements,  I  am 
able  to  secure  for  myself  an  entire  compartment 
without  fear  of  intrusion  by  iincouth  or  uncleanly 
travellers. 

Scarcely  an  hour  has  elapsed  since  we  left  the 
Kasan  station;  yet  those  features  which  the  word 
Moscow  will  hereafter  always  evoke,  have  al- 
ready begun  to  cohere,  offering  the  inner  eye  one 
of  those  sharply  defined  images  always  left  by 
places  that  have  deeply  impressed  us.  It  centres 
about  the  Kremlin,  before  which  the  Krasnaya — or 
Red — Square  stretches  like  the  proscenium  of  some 
vast  pageant ;  bounded  at  one  end  by  that  incred- 
ible Vasily  Blasjenny  Church,  with  its  imique  and 
almost  monstrous  agglomeration  of  neck-like 
towers  and  bulbous  domes, — each  different  from 
the  other,  and  all  striped  and  patterned  with  every 
colour  known  to  man;  a  building  singularly  ex- 
pressive of  that  fantastic  world  in  which  moved  and 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  5 

reigned  Ivan  Grosny,  known  to  us  as  the  Terrible. 
Along  the  further  side  of  the  square,  the  great 
brick  walls  of  the  Kremlin  stretch  away  endlessly, 
crenellated  and  rose-red ;  terminating  at  the  angles 
in  round  slender  turrets  with  slim  spires,  and 
broken  at  intervals  by  huge  rectangular  gateways, 
surmounted  by  towering  steeples  brightly  green 
and  crowned  with  iron  eagles.  Over  these  walls 
peers  an  indistinguishable  confusion  of  palaces, 
churches,  cloisters,  towers,  and  roofs,  on  which — ■ 
as  on  a  sea — a  multitude  of  bulbiform  small  domes 
seems  to  float.  Viewed  from  the  bridge  over  the 
Moscow,  or  as  it  is  called  in  Russian — like  the 
city  itself — the  Moskva  River,  the  Kremlin  rises 
from  the  bastioned  walls  that  sweep  along  the 
curving  stream,  in  a  steep  slope  covered  with 
buildings  fantastically  formed.  Within,  it  offers 
a  view,  not  so  much  of  a  fortress  as  of  a  theocratic 
city;  where  the  churches,  which  all  but  outnumber 
the  palaces,  crowd  about  little  squares  whence, 
over  the  rosy  walls,  a  glimpse  is  caught  of  the 
gaudy  domes  of  Ivon  Grosny's  church;  or,  far 
away  down  beside  the  bending  river,  of  the  noble 
outlines  of  St.  Saviour's  Church,  built  to  com- 
memorate the  great  Napoleon's  defeat.  The 
quintessence  of  the  Kremlin  lies,  however,  in  a 
recollection  of  untold  quantities  of  jewel-work, 
richly  wrought  and  delicate  beyond  words  to 
praise,  gathered  together  in  dim,  almost  secret- 
seeming  rooms;  and  in  the  impression  of  those 
strange  cathedrals,  subdivided  into  little  spaces, 


6         MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

with  a  singular  aspect  of  confusion,  splendour,  and 
rampant  idolatry. 

Moscow  also  evokes  long  drives  at  evening- 
dark,  over  the  snow  in  little  sleighs,  to  distant 
fortified  white  monasteries;  where  in  scantily 
lighted  churches,  filled  with  tiny  lamps  glimmering 
before  idol-like  ikons,  priests  and  deacons,  their 
incredible  bass  notes  booming  below  the  high 
voices  of  the  boys,  sing  with  curious  ceremony 
nostalgic  music,  sometimes  badly,  sometimes  very 
nobly.  Above  all,  it  presents  to  memory  a  pic- 
ture of  that  fantastic  monastery,  the  Troitsko- 
Sergiyevskaya  Lavra,  which  lies  some  sixty  versts 
away  across  the  flat  and  snow-draped  coimtry, 
guarding  in  its  treasury  its  six  hundred  and  fifty 
million  roubles*  worth  of  churchly  jewels.  Viewed 
from  the  hill-crest,  on  a  day  of  brilliant  sun  flash- 
ing through  the  air  and  sparkling  on  the  endless 
fields  of  snow;  it  stretches  before  one,  an  immense 
mass  of  buildings,  fortified  like  all  old  Russian 
monasteries,  and  enclosed  in  high  white  walls 
with  crenellations,  buttressed  at  each  angle  by  an 
immense  rotmd  tower,  domed  and  painted  in 
bright  scarlet,  with  certain  forms  picked  out  by 
white  lines.  Over  these  vast  outer  walls,  there 
rises  a  quite  indescribable  confusion  of  churches 
and  convents,  towers,  roofs  and  domes,  strange 
in  form,  and  all  painted  in  bright  clear  shades  of 
red,  blue,  green,  white,  pink,  and  even  lavender, 
while  stars  are  patterned  on  those  domes  not 
covered  with  gilt.     The  colours  are  light  but  crude 


The  Kremlin  from  the  Kamoneny  Bridge,  Moskov 


The  Vasily  Blasjenny  Church  from  within  the  Kremlin 

(.This  church  was  built  by  Ivan  the  Terrible,  who  is  said  to  have  had  the  architect  blinded  on 

its  completion,  in  order  that  nothing  like  it  should  ever  be  built) 


Inside  the  Kremlin,  Moskov 

The  Archangelsky  Cathedral  and  the  Ivan  Veliky  Tower 

The  broken  bell  beside  the  tower  was  made  by  order  of  the  Empress  Anne,  and  is  the  largest  in  the  world 


St.  Saviour's  Church  from  the  Kremlin,  Moskov 
(This  church  was  built  to  commemorate  Napoleon's  defeat) 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  7 

and  contrasting;  the  effect  is  barbaric,  yet  in- 
tensely striking  and  picturesque ;  it  is  in  real  life  one 
of  those  strangely  splendid  scenes  with  which  the 
settings  of  the  Russian  ballet  have  made  usfamiHar. 

Indeed,  colour  is  the  distinctive  feature  of  all 
Russian  architecture,  of  which  nothing  that 
describes  only  the  masses  can  give  an  idea.  Its 
forms  are  strange  and  half  oriental,  yet  would  not 
in  themselves  produce  a  deep  impression;  its 
materials  are  poor,  being  brick  and  rubble,  but 
are  plastered  over  and  then  painted  with  every 
conceivable  shade  of  clear  intense  colour.  The 
barbaric  combination  of  coloiurs  is  disconcerting, 
and  not  at  all  beautiful,  according  to  our  aes- 
thetics ;  yet  it  is  imdeniably  picturesque  and  effec- 
tive, with  an  acrid  beauty  of  its  own  not  unlike 
the  impression  made  on  classical  ears  by  modem 
music. 

Among  striking  recollections  of  "  Little  Mother" 
Moscow,  perhaps  the  most  indelible  is  that  of  its 
numberless  small  domes,  formed  like  tapering 
bulbs,  and  floating  over  the  city  wherever  seen. 
The  gilt  with  which  they  are  covered,  if  new — as  it 
frequently  is — shines  like  sun-glow  even  under 
the  sombre  light  of  the  grey  and  lifeless  skies  so 
characteristic  of  a  Russian  winter;  toward  evening, 
in  clear  weather,  they  reflect  the  last  rays,  flashing 
and  sparkling  over  the  city.  But  even  more 
fantastic  and  impressive  than  the  domes  they  sur- 
mount, are  the  myriads  of  finial  crosses;  these  are 
usually  not  straight  and  solid,  but  wrought  in 


8         MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

some  sort  of  filigree,  with  fine  points  and  lace-like 
ornaments;  the  whole  fastened  by  spreading  wires 
to  the  domes,  from  whose  taper  points  they  seem 
to  burst  like  blossoming  stalks  from  bulbs, — 
tracing  on  the  sombre  sky  a  net-work  not  unlike 
the  rigging  of  a  ship  .  .  .  Moscovite  memories  such 
as  these,  cross  my  mind  as  the  wide  and  steady  cars 
are  drawn  through  the  winter  dark,  toward  the 
plains  of  Turkestan  with  their  legendary  cities. 


February  g*} 
Nothing  could  be  more  imlike  the  bright  colours 
and  strange  forms  of  Moscow  than  the  dim  and 
formless  view  outside  the  carriage-window  this 
morning.  The  boundless  sky  is  grey — no,  not 
even  grey;  it  is  the  mere  negation  of  colour,  a 
pallor  seemingly  the  hue  of  vacuity;  at  times,  near 
the  horizon,  it  turns  white  like  the  snow  and  ap- 
pears alive ;  but  overhead  there  is  only  endless  and 
immobile  dreariness.  The  landscape  is  mono- 
tonous and  desolate,  lacking  even  the  beauty  of 
great  expanses  of  snow;  endless  undulations  stretch 
away  vaguely  until  earth  and  sky  mingle  in  a 
mysterious  nebulosity;  dun-coloured  stubble  or 
ash-brown  earth  shows  through  the  thin  snow; 
here  and  there  are  stretches  where  weeds,  withered 
and  colourless,  stand  in  rows  or  climips,  whilst  at 
intervals  a  grey-white  mass  attracts  attention 
when  the  snow  has  gathered  deep  enough  to  hide 
the  earth.     Sometimes  trees  grow  singly  or  in 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  9 

groups,  battered  and  leafless,  showing  a  little 
mass  of  intricate  boughs  faintly  outlined  against 
the  grey;  or  else  evergreens  form  dark  spots  in 
the  landscape,  where  small  woods  occasionally 
draw  still  darker  larger  lines.  Habitations  are 
visible  but  rarely  and,  even  then,  are  nothing 
more  than  little  cabins  of  wood,  rough  and  un- 
painted,  in  colour  a  dirty  hopeless  grey-brown 
singularly  in  keeping  with  the  universal  dreariness. 
Once  in  a  long  while  a  sledge  passes,  laden  with 
straw  and  drawn  by  a  dull-coloured  horse,  with 
men  in  long  black  coats  following  close  behind; 
but  generally  there  is  no  living  thing  in  sight. 
Near  the  stations  there  are  more  signs  of  life: 
sleighs — with  horses  harnessed  to  the  shafts  by 
high  wooden  yokes  shaped  like  a  horseshoe — 
appear,  drawing  logs  slowly,  or  moving  swiftly 
with  only  the  owner  seated  on  the  floor — since 
they  have  no  seats;  a  better  sort  of  house  is  also 
to  be  seen,  its  two  storeys  painted  and  ornamented 
with  scroll-work  like  Swiss  chalets;  invariably 
they  stand  inside  an  enclosure,  where  a  horse  is 
rolling  lazily  in  the  snow,  or  a  few  figures  are 
hurrying  across. 

The  only  diversity  in  the  scenery  occurs  where 
there  are  miniature  valleys,  having  slopes  of  some 
twenty  feet  up  which  small  evergreens  scramble, 
or  else  where  there  is  a  wood  growing  near  enough 
to  the  railway  for  one  to  see  either  the  serried 
rows  of  pines  (deep  olive-green  darkening  to 
black)  or  the  white  stems  of  small  and  slender 


lo       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

birches  surrounded  by  a  delicate  tracery  of  twigs, 
which  lends  a  touch  of  grace  to  all  this  desolation. 
Sometimes  I  can  descry  a  crow  perched  on  one  of 
those  wooden  palisades,  laid  in  sections  making 
acute  angles  one  with  the  other — so  as  not  to  fall, 
and  placed  in  exposed  spots  to  prevent  the  snow 
from  piling  up  in  huge  drifts.  These  Russian 
crows  are  smarter  than  their  brothers  who  wheel 
across  the  skies  of  western  Europe,  and  are  alto- 
gether most  picturesque  and  interesting  fellows. 
Their  breasts  and  backs  are  warm  grey — almost  dun 
— and  slightly  speckled,  only  the  heads,  wings,  and 
a  kind  of  bib-like  patch  imder  the  bill,  being  shiny 
black.  They  are  large,  fearless,  and  everywhere 
quite  at  their  ease.  A  smaller  species  of  crow  is 
also  to  be  seen  quite  frequently — all  black  and 
more  lively,  but  also  more  easily  frightened, 
flitting  off  quickly  in  real  bird-fashion,  whereas 
the  larger  kind  has  but  little  of  the  unceasing 
volatility  so  usual  in  birds. 

At  the  stations,  the  poorest  of  the  peasants 
have  their  legs  wound  in  rags  laced  round  with 
string,  and  are  shod  by  a  sort  of  a  slipper  woven 
with  strips  of  vegetable  fibre;  these  are  really 
nothing  more  than  a  sole  with  a  solid  strip  that 
covers  the  toes  and  stretches  back  far  enough  to 
prevent  this  primitive  foot-gear  from  coming  off. 
They  are  dressed  in  long  jackets  made  of  skins 
with  the  furry  side  turned  in,  and  wear  big  shaggy 
hats  of  fur.  Those  better  off  are  dressed  in  long 
black  coats  with  full  skirts,  like  those  worn  in 


A  Typical  Church,  Moskov 


The  Troitsco-Sergiyevskaya  Lavra  near  Moskov 
(Next  to  the  monastery  at  Kiev,  this  is  the  oldest  and  most  famous  one  in  all  Russia) 


The  Tomb  of  Timur  Lang,  Samarqand 
(The  minaret  no  longer  exists) 


The  Grave  of  Timur  Lang,  Samarqand 
(Timur's  grave  is  marked  by  the  black  slab) 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  ii 

Moscow,  and  high  boots  of  blackish  felt  with  soles 
of  the  same  material.  One  fellow — somewhat 
of  a  dandy — has  a  pair  of  these  clumsy  boots 
made  of  light  grey  felt,  decorated  with  scarlet 
stitching,  closely  worked  and  finished  off  toward 
the  tops  and  soles  by  rough  scroll  patterns.  Only 
very  occasionally  a  man  is  rich  enough  to  own  a 
pair  of  leather  boots.  At  these  small  stations 
not  a  sound  is  to  be  heard,  save  perhaps  the  distant 
barking  of  a  dog;  silence  and  sadness  seem  to  weigh 
on  the  country,  giving  to  every  scene  a  curious 
air  of  resignedness.  I  do  not  know  if  this  is  a 
delusion,  created  by  memories  of  what  I  have  read 
in  Russian  literature;  but  coimtry  and  people 
alike  do  certainly  seem  weighed  down  by  a 
quietude  that  is  stupefaction  even  more  than 
resignation. 

Quite  frequently  the  train  passes  •  through  a 
little  wood  of  birches.  (Repetitions  of  the  word 
"little"  can  scarcely  be  avoided,  since  everything 
in  view  is  slight  and  stunted.)  These  birches — 
with  their  slim  white  stems,  spotted  with  black 
and  wrapped  in  a  brownish  haze,  formed  by  masses 
of  leafless  branches  too  fine  for  the  eye  to  see 
separately — do  not  hide  the  white  snow  lying  on 
the  earth  between  their  trunks ;  but  here  and  there 
smaller  trees  stand  out  more  boldly  against  the 
white — deciduous  also,  but  with  dried  leaves  still 
clinging  to  the  boughs  in  patches  of  buff  that  wave 
and  quiver  against  the  greys  and  white  of  sky  and 
earth.     At  the  present  moment  we  are  running 


12       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

through  a  coppice  of  birches — for  Russia — of 
considerable  size;  they  are  entirely  coated  with 
a  glare  of  ice,  so  that  the  straight  trunks,  while 
visible  from  root  to  topmost  twig,  are  yet  sur- 
rounded by  pearly  masses  of  drooping  branchlets 
that  seem  a  foliage  from  fairyland.  There  being 
no  simlight,  these  jewelled  trees  are  neither  white 
nor  glittering,  only  a  tender  grey  tracing  an  in- 
tricate design  across  a  veil  of  clouds.  Leafless 
shrubs,  growing  between  their  trunks,  are  likewise 
tipped  and  powdered  with  ice;  while  here  and 
there  a  sturdier  tree,  on  whose  duller  bark  the 
icy  coating  is  scarcely  visible,  by  its  contrast  en- 
hances the  gracile  beauty  of  the  birch.  Here 
the  snow  lies  thickly  in  a  covering  of  pure  white; 
the  whole  scene  is  poetic  and  suggestive  of  old- 
time  tales  of  faery,  making  a  break  in  the  monotony 

very  welcome  even  though  momentary 

It  is  now  afternoon  and  we  have  just  reached 
Sizran,  where  all  the  luggage  has  to  be  shifted 
from  one  train  to  another.  A  group  of  fur-capped 
porters  is  lifting  an  immense  iron  tube  into  one 
of  the  vans,  singing  a  chanty  all  the  while,  quite 
in  the  manner  of  choruses  on  the  stage.  Mon- 
golian, almost  Chinese  types  appear  for  the  first 
time  among  the  people  at  the  station — queer  flat 
faces  that  make  me  realise  I  am  really  approaching 
Asia.  For  a  few  seconds  a  glint  of  sun  breaks 
through  the  clouds,  lighting  up  the  dreary  scene 
with  a  red-gold  glow.  When  we  draw  out  of  the 
station  an  hour  and  a  half   later,  a  full  moon 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  13 

ascends  the  darkling  sky  behind  long  wisps  of 
vapour  that  trail  across  its  glistening  disk.  Be- 
fore long,  however,  clouds  veil  the  moon  and  all 
the  sky;  when  the  train  begins  to  skirt  the  Volga, 
Matuschka  or  Little  Mother  Volga,  I  can  barely 
discern,  through  the  fast  gathering  darkness,  an 
indeterminate  stretch  of  grey  and  snowy  ice  where 
a  darker  line  vaguely  marks  the  further  shore. 
Nothing  else  is  visible,  yet  the  thought  that  this 
is  the  famous  Volga  is  stirring — particularly  when 
the  tinkling  echo  of  balalaikas  playing  that  won- 
derful song  of  the  Volga  boatmen,  resounds  in 
the  ear  of  memory.  It  cannot,  however,  prevent 
my  suspecting  that  the  voyage  down  the  Volga, 
which  from  afar  sounds  so  alluring,  must  be — at 
least  as  far  as  the  landscape  is  concerned — very 
monotonous.  .  .  .  For  a  moment  the  clouds  part 
and  the  argent  moon  appears  coldly  radiant  in 
the  centre  of  blue  sky  strewn  with  glittering  stars ; 
then  they  draw  together  once  more  as  we  cross 
the  Volga  on  a  modern  bridge.  In  this  pallid  light 
the  river  is — nevertheless — clearly  visible,  stretch- 
ing away  grey- white,  barred  just  here  by  the  sombre 
shadows  of  the  bridge,  and  further  off  marble- 
like, all  streaked  and  spotted  by  drifting  snow; 
finally  it  is  lost  to  view  in  the  ashen  distance 
around  a  bend  where  a  line  of  yellow  lights  curves 
away,  glistening  softly.  A  flock  of  large  black 
birds  is  passing  over  the  river  close  to  the  bridge, 

winging  without  a  sound  swiftly  northward 

The  first  of  what  will  probably  be  a  series  of 


14       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULP 

misadventures  due  to  my  ignorance  of  Russian, 
has  just  occurred.  On  leaving  Moscow  there  was 
a  dining-car  only  mildly  odorous,  in  which  tahle- 
d'hote  meals  were  served;  so  I  had  nothing  to  do 
but  sit  at  table  and  wait  to  see  what  the  strangely 
written  menu  really  meant.  It  appears,  however, 
that  the  dining-car  is  to  be  changed  each  day; 
this  noon  I  found  it  separated  from  the  sleeping- 
car  by  a  line  of  fourth-class  carriages,  which  to 
traverse  is  a  veritable  trial.  In  these  cars,  the 
passage  leads  through  an  apparently  endless  succes- 
sion of  doors  in  the  partitions  dividing  them  into 
separate  compartments,  where  men,  women,  and 
children  of  the  poorest  classes  are  piled  together 
on  a  series  of  wooden  shelves.  The  temperature 
is  that  of  a  fiery  furnace,  and  all  ventilation  is 
rigorously  excluded;  the  stench  defies  conception 
by  even  the  liveliest  imagination.  I  have  learned 
that  the  least  painful  method  of  passing  through, 
is  to  draw  a  long  breath  on  the  open  platform 
separating  the  cars  and  then  rush  through,  slam- 
ming doors  and  holding  my  breath  till  the  further 
platform  is  reached.  As  the  new  dining-car  is 
hermetically  sealed,  and  admits  third,  if  not  fourth- 
class  passengers,  the  nose  can  scarcely  distinguish 
between  it  and  a  fourth-class  carriage;  the  heat 
makes  one's  head  reel,  while  the  acrid  odour  seizes 
one  by  the  throat  and  almost  nauseates.  To  my 
horror,  I  discovered  that  I  now  had  to  order  d  la 
carte  from  a  menu  whose  curious  characters  I 
could  not  even  read.     Pointing  in  desperation  to 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  15 

two  names,  which  I  imagined  to  be  probably  a 
soup  and  a  roast,  I  waited  patiently  for  twenty 
minutes,  breathing  the  mephitic  atmosphere  of 
this  delectable  carriage;  then  to  my  dismay,  I 
was  served  with  a  noisome  mess  of  fish  coated 
with  sickly  sauce,  that  I  did  not  dare  touch. 
This,  I  thought,  must  be  the  dish  I  had  expected 
to  prove  a  soup;  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour's  wait 
having  produced  nothing  more,  I  was  forced  to 
indicate  to  the  waiter  a  dish  near  the  end  of  the 
list;  this  manoeuvre  finally  secured  the  half  of  an 
edible  partridge.  For  the  guileless  and  tongue- 
tied  foreigner,  dining  on  a  Russian  train  is  certainly 
hazardous ! 

February  10'." 
Early  this  morning  we  passed  through  Orenburg; 
now  the  desert  steppes  have  begun — an  undivided 
waste  of  snow  and  clouds.  We  are  entering  Cen- 
tral Asia,  passing  through  the  land  of  the  Kirghiz 
Cossacks  and  the  Tartar  hordes.  The  idea  that 
I  am  really  crossing  this  ancient  and  half  fabulous 
countr '  is  strange,  but  the  familiar  international 
wagon-fit  in  which  I  find  myself,  makes  it  seem  a 
part  ( f  everyday  European  travel.  Comfort  in 
travelling  is  certainly  very  welcome,  but  there  is 
no  denying  how  completely  it  routs  the  unusual 
and  the  picturesque.  .  .  .  The  steppe  stretches 
away  outside  the  window,  an  absolutely  level 
expanse  of  vaporous  snow,  which  a  few  hundred 
yards  off  melts  into  a  sky  without  form,  colour, 


i6       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

or  motion.  Wind  moving  across  the  surface, 
gives  the  snow  a  misty  cloud-like  appearance,  so 
that  looking  out  with  eyes  slightly  closed,  it  is 
impossible  to  distinguish  between  earth  and  sky. 
All  that  is  visible  is  a  nebulous  wall — a  vertical 
something  entirely  without  solidity,  which  it 
would  be  erroneous  to  call  grey,  since  its  pallor  is 
no  more  than  absence  of  all  colour.  On  looking 
more  closely,  a  faint  line  is  just  discernible  where 
rising  ground  breaks  through  the  snow;  or  at  long 
intervals  a  solitary  tree  stands  out,  bent  and  black, 
the  only  precise  form  in  all  this  vagueness.  Now 
and  then  in  the  foreground,  withered  weeds  and 
stubble  pierce  the  snow,  sometimes  growing  form- 
lessly,  sometimes  in  rows  and  curves.  Perhaps  a 
line  of  trees  may  bar  the  white  with  a  black  line, 
half  effaced  as  the  snow  rises,  whirling  away 
before  the  wind;  perhaps  a  single  house  comes  into 
sight,  half  hidden  in  the  drifts  among  a  few  bare 
trees.  At  rare  intervals  a  slight  eminence  is  cov- 
ered by  a  village,  the  roofs  of  whose  one-storeyed 
wooden  houses  are  concealed  by  snow,  with  only 
a  narrow  strip  peeping  out  from  the  whiteness  in 
which  they  are  so  deeply  sunk  that  earth  and 
houses  can  scarcely  be  distinguished.  Scattered 
trees  peer  over  what  must  be  the  ridge-poles, 
while  the  chiu-ch  rises  conspicuously  in  the  middle 
of  the  village,  dominating  everything  in  sight  by 
its  yellow  belfry  and  green  spire,  standing  beside 
the  square  mass  of  the  church  proper,  with  yellow 
walls  and  roof  just  perceptibly  green,  from  which 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  17 

rise  four  little  domes,  and — in  the  centre — a  fifth 
and  larger  one  faintly  blue.  Sometimes  at  the 
end  of  the  long  band  of  dull  colour  which  represents 
the  village,  a  smaller  church  may  be  seen  with  a 
slender  steeple  but  no  domes.  Once  there  were 
three  dull  brown  wind-mills,  their  squat  sails  turn- 
ing industriously,  outlined  against  the  endless  grey. 
A  sleigh  or  a  few  figures  may  be  seen  moving 
toward  or  from  the  always  distant  station — when 
the  village  has  one.  Here  where  we  have  just 
stopped,  nothing  is  visible  but  the  station,  painted 
a  cheerful  ochre  with  white  trimmings;  its  red 
roof  is  half  hidden  by  snow  and  fringed  with 
icicles;  in  front  of  its  tightly  closed  door,  an  at- 
tendant is  standing  with  feet  side  by  side  and  arms 
hanging  motionless,  except  when  he  lifts  a  hand 
to  rub  his  ears.  The  building,  against  which  the 
snow  has  risen  in  wave-like  drifts,  stands  in  a 
fenced  enclosure  where  a  few  trees,  slender  and 
bare,  grow  out  of  the  snow.  Only  the  moaning 
wind  is  audible,  until  a  bell  rings  as  we  move 
slowly  off,  and  a  dun-coloured  cow  comes  into 
sight  aroimd  the  corner  of  the  station,  standing 
absolutely  still  beside  the  house.  For  a  short 
distance  an  unpainted  wooden  fence,  quite  yellow 
against  the  white,  nms  along  beside  the  lines  to 
break  the  drifts  of  snow;  then  once  more  we  are 
lost  in  a  vague  expanse.  Nothing  is  visible  fifty 
yards  from  the  window,  in  front  of  which  mist 
and  snow,  moving  before  the  wind,  mingle  in 
impenetrable  veils. 


1 8       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

It  is  an  appropriate  setting  in  which  to  read 
Dostoyevsky's  work  of  genius:  The  Idiot — a 
strange  book,  formless  even  for  a  Russian  novel, 
and  singularly  disconcerting.  It  is  impossible 
not  to  wonder  whether  people  ever  existed,  so 
frenzied  as  those  here  described :  men  and  women 
continually  swept  away  by  sensations  they  do 
not  themselves  altogether  understand,  conversing 
endlessly  without  quite  knowing  what  they  wish 
to  say,  like  men  drunk  or  carried  away  by  passion ; 
creatures  aimlessly  driven  hither  and  yon  by 
emotion,  precisely  as  the  snow  and  vapour  whirl 
away  in  wreaths  before  the  wind  rushing  across 
the  steppes  in  the  dim  world  outside  my  window. 

A  wild  night  slowly  gathers  around  the  moving 
train;  a  gale  rages,  driving  the  snow  before  it 
across  plains  that  are  ghostly  in  the  wan  light 
which  a  hidden  moon  sheds  through  a  pall  of 
clouds.  Looking  out  of  the  window,  I  feel  as 
though  I  were  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  or  moving 
in  a  strange  world  of  vapour.  When  I  step  out 
at  a  station,  the  wind  howls  around  me,  wringing 
and  bending  the  inky  boughs  of  a  few  naked  trees, 
while  it  whirls  the  snow  into  long  clouds  of  white, 
that  rush  wildly  round  and  up  as  they  are  flung 
against  the  walls  and  then  high  into  the  sable 
immensity. 

February  ii*> 
This  morning  there  is  a  change  of  scenery  so 
complete  as  to  seem  like  a  new  setting  on  the  stage. 


TEC  -  ART  STUDIOS,  Inc. 

MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  19 

At  first  the  earth — although  nearly  bare — still 
held  a  considerable  amount  of  snow;  but  now  at 
eleven  o'clock  it  has  almost  disappeared,  leaving 
only  small  patches  sprinkled  over  a  dirty-brown 
plain  that  stretches  to  the  horizon  absolutely 
level,  except  where  at  rare  intervals  a  row  of 
humpy  hillocks  breaks  the  monotony.  The  ground 
is  covered  with  a  straggling  growth  of  sere  yellow 
grass.  From  time  to  time,  we  pass  encampments 
of  nomad  Kirghiz  with  flocks  of  sheep  and  stray 
camels  quietly  grazing  nearby.  Men  dressed  in 
dust-coloured  garments  move  across  the  desert, 
mounted  on  camels.  The  sun  is  shining  brightly, 
and  the  unclouded  sky  is  of  pale  blue  fading  into 
grey  as  it  sinks  toward  the  horizon.  A  flock  of 
birds  is  winging  its  way  close  to  the  ground— 
a  black  mass  of  swiftly  moving  specks,  which  at 
times  disintegrates,  rising  and  falling  like  grain 
thrown  into  the  air.  It  would  be  easy  to  imagine 
one's  self  crossing  the  high  plateaus  of  Algeria, 
and  no  scene  could,  in  its  desert  brightness,  offer 
a  greater  contrast  to  the  bleak  snows  of  yesterday. 
Just  now  the  dried  grass  grows  quite  thickly, 
with  great  stretches  where  feathery  tufts  still 
cling  to  the  pale  gold  stalks.  Here  and  there  it 
has  been  cut  and  piled  in  small  rectangular  heaps, 
almost  without  colour.  Nomad  camps  are  quite 
numerous,  of  which  nothing  is  visible  but  a  low 
wall  of  sun-dried  earth,  surmounted  by  some  sort 
of  brushwood.  The  sun  is  almost  hot;  we  are 
really  in  Asia,  moving  southward  across  the  cradle 


20       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

of  htunanity,  toward  the  land  of  Timur  and  of 
Chingiz  Khan. 

At  the  stations,  plenty  of  Kirghiz  are  to  be  seen 
walking  the  platforms ;  squat  men  with  a  yellowish 
skin  and  flat  Mongolian  faces.  The  most  notice- 
able thing  about  them  is  their  fur-lined  caps  with 
coverings  for  the  ears  and  neck  that  can  be  turned 
up,  but  are  now  worn  down,  forming  a  kind  of  hood. 
At  a  door  in  the  train,  a  Tartar  woman  from  Kasan 
is  standing;  she  has  a  square  block  of  purple  velvet 
embroidered  in  silver,  perched  on  the  front  of  her 
head  under  her  shawl;  but  her  high  boots  of  soft 
yellow  leather,  decorated  with  red,  blue,  and  green 
patches  of  the  same  material,  are  the  most  startling 
part  of  her  costume 

At  Perovsk  which  we  left  a  short  time  ago,  I 
nearly  got  into  serious  trouble  because  —  not 
knowing  that  we  had  crossed  the  frontier  of  Tur- 
kestan— I  took  a  photograph  of  Said  standing 
beside  the  train,  and  another  of  some  people 
grouped  about  the  car  door.  The  excitement  was 
intense;  station-masters,  gendarmes,  soldiers,  and 
I  know  not  what  other  officials,  crowded  around 
me,  talking  volubly  but  politely  in  Russian,  of 
which  I  could  understand  only  the  word  passport ; 
this  I  produced,  but  there  would  probably  have 
been  no  end  of  trouble,  had  I  not  been  the  bearer 
of  a  letter  from  the  Russian  ambassador,  request- 
ing all  police  and  customs  authorities  to  treat  me 
with  civility.  This  seemed  to  have  a  calming 
effect  and  I  was  permitted — to  my  great  relief — 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  21 

to  board  the  train  just  as  it  was  moving  off. 
However,  at  the  next  station  a  soldier — with  his 
gun  on  his  shoulder — marched  through  the  cor- 
ridor of  the  sleeping-car,  asking  for  the  passport 
and  name  of  the  Frenchman  travelling  on  the 
train;  as  I  had  spoken  to  the  officials  in  French, 
which  they  did  not  understand  but  undoubtedly 
recognised,  it  was  probably  about  me  that  further 
enquiries  were  desired;  as  luck  would  have  it,  one 
of  the  carriages  really  was  occupied  by  a  French- 
man who  produced  all  manners  of  papers,  so  I 
was  left  unmolested. 

This  Frenchman,  who  speaks  Russian  and  has 
already  aided  me  several  times  in  my  struggle  to 
order  meals,  is  a  curious  fellow  of  a  rough  but 
interesting  type.  He  lives  in  Moscow,  engaged 
in  some  business  for  which  he  is  now  travelling 
to  Tashkent.  His  wearing  the  ribbon  of  the  Legion 
d'Honneur,  is  explained  by  the  fact  that  he  was  a 
member  of  Charcot's  expedition  to  the  Pole.  He 
has  also  lived  five  years  in  Mongolia,  alone  with 
the  natives,  prospecting  for  mines;  he  is  therefore 
full  of  interesting  yarns.  Strangely  enough,  his 
travelling  companion  is  a  Spanish  painter  domi- 
ciled in  Paris;  in  the  sleeping-car  there  are  also 
Armenian  carpet  merchants  on  the  way  to  visit 
their  factories  at  Merv,  so  we  make  a  ludicrous 
jumble  of  nationalities 

Across  the  plain  now  without  a  trace  of  snow, 
and  so  dark  a  brown  as  almost  to  seem  black,  the 
crimson  sun  has  just  vanished  from  a  metallic 


22       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

sky,  leaving  the  shadows  to  sweep  over  the  steppe 
and  close  in  around  the  train;  but  a  full  and 
frosty  moon  soon  drives  them  from  the  unclouded 
heaven,  and  gazes  down  on  solemn  groups  of 
camels,  standing  motionless  near  every  station. 

February  12*.*' 
We  passed  through  Tashkent  before  dawn  this 
morning,  and  now  the  scenery  is  somewhat  differ- 
ent to  that  of  yesterday.  It  is  still  a  plain,  but 
no  longer  the  desert  steppe;  just  an  absolutely 
flat  expanse,  faintly  tinged  with  the  dirty  green 
of  short  grass,  traversed  here  and  there  by  the 
brown  line  of  a  road  or  an  irrigation  canal — both 
of  them  signs  we  are  no  longer  among  the  nomads ; 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  we  have  left  the  Kirghiz  behind 
and  are  now  among  the  sedentary  Sarths.  Quite 
frequently  we  pass  their  settlements;  a  mud  wall 
enclosing  mud  houses  roofed  with  thatch,  while 
hardby  groves  of  slender  trees,  rude  and  very 
boggy  roads,  horses,  and  cows,  complete  the  picture. 
The  first  chain  of  mountains  I  have  seen  since 
entering  Russia,  comes  into  sight  about  ten  o'clock ; 
near  the  ground  their  bases  fade  into  the  bluish 
mist,  until  the  summits  seem  to  float  above  an 
earth  with  which  they  have  no  contact ;  the  snow- 
capped ridges,  however,  stand  out  in  opalesque 
tones  of  white  delicately  touched  with  mauve  and 
pink,  sharply  outlined  against  mother-of-pearl 
clouds  that  begin  to  melt  as  they  rise  toward  the 
zenith,  fraying  away  in  the  blue. 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  23 

At  the  stations  it  is  really  hot  in  the  sun.  The 
type  of  men  has  changed  once  more,  Sarths  taking 
the  place  of  Kirghiz  in  the  idle  ciirious  groups 
gathered  on  the  platforms  to  watch  what  is  pro- 
bably the  great  event  of  each  day,  the  passage  of 
the  train.  They  are  taller  and  in  every  way  larger 
built  men  than  the  Kirghiz,  from  whom  they  also 
differ  in  their  darker  brown  complexions  and  the 
long  black  beards  they  often  wear.  They  dress 
in  a  long  garment,  a  cross  between  an  overcoat 
and  a  dressing  gown,  made  of  some  cotton  stuff 
brilliantly  striped  or  patterned,  and  obviously 
lined  with  a  heavier  material ;  this  descends  to  the 
knees  and  is  held  in  place  by  a  gaudy  handker- 
chief twisted  around  the  waist.  Their  visible 
clothing  is  completed  by  high  boots  of  black 
leather,  and  either  strips  of  dirty  white  twisted 
into  turbans,  or  else  skull-caps  of  bright  colours 
and  lively  patterns. 

Beyond  Tchemyayevo  the  line  turns  sharply 
westward  toward  the  Caspian  Sea,  across  a  very 
flat  desert,  in  colour  a  sickly  brown  changing  to 
dull  olive.  At  no  great  distance  to  the  south,  a 
noble  range  of  mountains  rises  directly  from  the 
plain,  its  forms  all  clearly  visible;  first  the  lower 
spurs,  brownish  turning  to  blackish  grey;  then  a 
little  higher,  streaks  and  patches  of  snow  lying  in 
shady  folds,  above  which  the  great  flanks  lift  up 
bare  pointed  peaks,  all  crinkled  and  ridged,  pearly- 
coloured  and  flecked  with  soft  shadows.  .  .  . 
All   day  the  scenery  scarcely  varies;  when   we 


24       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

finally  reach  Samarqand,  night  has  come;  for  it 
is  ten  minutes  past  six  by  railway  or  Petersburg 
time,  but  really  almost  nine  by  local  time.  We 
have  been  a  hundred  hours  crossing  the  scarcely 
inhabited  wastes  of  Russian  Asia.  A  long  drive 
by  moonlight,  over  a  cobble  road  bordered  by 
tall  leafless  plane- trees,  brings  me  to  the  bright 
and  tawdry  street  of  a  modem  provincial  town 
with  its  one-storeyed  sorry  hotel.  At  last  I  am 
really  in  Samarqand  la  bien  gardee;  but  everything 
in  sight  is  so  like  all  the  rest  of  the  vulgar  modern 
world,  that — even  with  the  moon's  help — it  is 
impossible  to  feel  thrilled. 

February  13*^ 
The  Samarqand  of  to-day  is  divided  into  two 
entirely  distinct  parts — the  modem  Russian  town, 
and  the  old  or  more  correctly  the  native  city;  for 
of  ancient  Samarqand,  the  seat  of  learning  and 
the  capital  of  Timur,  no  vestige  is  left  other  than 
the  splendid  fragments  of  a  few  great  monuments. 
The  Russian  town  is  formed  of  one-storeyed  houses, 
shops  or  dwellings,  built  along  broad  avenues 
lined  with  tall  plane-trees — a  tawdry  town  typical 
of  the  commercial  life  of  to-day.  The  native  city 
is  merely  a  series  of  broad  streets,  where  at  present 
black  mud,  deep  and  viscous,  makes  any  progress 
an  acrobatic  feat;  the  houses  are,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  Russian  buildings,  nothing  more 
than  wooden  shanties.  This  renowned  city  of 
Samarqand,  whose    beginnings    are    lost    in    the 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  25 

mystery  of  unrecorded  time,  whose  glory  filled 
all  Asia  with  its  rumour,  in  the  days  when  her 
walls  resounded  with  the  noise  of  building,  as 
Timur  and  his  issue  bade  their  artisans  rear  those 
monuments  which  still  adorn  her  downfall ;  to-day 
offers  to  the  curious  wanderer  come  from  afar, 
no  aspects  quaint  or  picturesque,  no  features  of 
interest,  except  shattered  mosques  and  mauso- 
leums rising  out  of  the  sordid  native  town,  much 
as  broken  shafts  of  marble  might  emerge  from  a 
heap  of  refuse.  To  one  who  has  seen  an  oriental 
city  before,  Samarqand  offers  nothing  novel  in 
the  way  of  native  life.  The  fine  trees  which  fill 
the  modem  and  surround  both  the  new  and  the 
old  town,  must  in  spring  and  summer  add  some 
beauty  to  the  place;  but  now  they  are  bare  and 
brown,  almost  shabby-looking  with  their  scaled 
bark  and  stray  leaves  dangling  stiff  and  dead; 
so,  if  anything,  they  contribute  to  the  shoddy  and 
neglected  air  of  the  city.  This  impression  is  cer- 
tainly heightened,  perhaps  partly  created,  by  a 
sullen  sky  of  leaden  grey  overhanging  the  entire 
scene  without  light  or  hfe.  The  one  thing  beau- 
tiful is  the  noble  chain  of  snowy  mountains,  distant 
only  some  eighteen  versts,  of  which  a  glimpse  is 
caught  at  every  turn.  I  am  told  that  they  are 
mantled  with  snow,  or  at  least  that  the  summits 
are,  even  in  summer-time;  and  the  sight  of  these 
white-wreathed  peaks,  under  an  azure  sky  and 
over  the  green  tops  of  swaying  locust  or  poplar 
trees,  must  indeed  be  delightful. 


26       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

My  first  visit  is  to  the  tomb  of  that  mighty 
monarch,  the  conqueror  Timur  Lang,  Timur  the 
Lame,  better  known  as  Tamerlane,  or  even — 
since  he  has  stirred  the  imagination  of  all  ages — 
to  lovers  of  the  Elizabethans,  as  Tamburlaine.  A 
first  glimpse  caught  by  the  road  through  a  tracery 
of  bare  brown  boughs,  is  of  a  splendid  dome  still 
partly  covered  by  tiles  of  a  deep  turquoise  blue. 
After  the  fashion  of  all  domes  in  Samarqand,  it 
rises  from,  and  projects  beyond,  a  circular  drum 
ornamented  with  coloured  patterns  and  inscrip- 
tions, formed  by  glazed  tiles  set  in  the  unglazed 
buff  brick  of  which  the  major  part  of  the  tomb  is 
built.  This  drum  ends  in,  or — more  correctly — ■ 
is  crowned  by,  a  series  of  elaborate  honeycomb 
vaultings  in  true  Arabic  style,  forming  corbels 
from  which  the  dome  springs;  the  diameter  of  its 
base  being  in  consequence  somewhat  greater  than 
that  of  the  drum  it  overhangs.  The  cupola  is 
not  hemispherical,  but  pointed  and  much  stilted 
— rather  like  an  egg  sliced  off  considerably  below 
the  middle;  in  this  case  it  is  ribbed  in  a  way  I 
can  only  describe  as  being  like  the  flutings  on  a 
cake,  that  is  to  say,  the  ribs  or  flutes  leave  no  flat 
surface  between  them,  each  touching  the  other  and 
terminating  on  its  own  corbel.  The  whole  dome 
was  once  covered  with  tiles  of  a  hue  best  called 
turquoise,  but  very  dark  and  at  the  same  time  very 
vivid,  that  must  have  formed  a  striking  mass  of 
colour.  The  entrance  is  through  a  gateway,  once 
part  of  a  portal  wall  pierced  by  an  immense  arch- 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  27 

way,  forming  a  flat  niche  with  the  actual  door  in 
its  centre;  wall  and  arch  have  fallen  and  disap- 
peared, nothing  remaining  to-day  but  a  flat  wall 
with  its  door-opening,  and  two  now  buttress-like 
shafts  of  masonry  rising  at  either  side  of  the  wall. 
Within,  there  is  a  small  and  ruinous  courtyard, 
where  a  few  leafless  cherry-trees  grow  in  front  of 
the  mausoleum.  This  facade  was  originally  com- 
posed of  a  great  portal  with  its  arched  opening, 
flanked  on  either  side  by  lower  wings;  the  entire 
archway  with  the  wall  it  supported,  and  the  whole 
second  storey  of  the  left  wing,  have  vanished ;  to- 
day what  was  once  the  rear  wall  of  the  portal 
arch,  rises  free  some  thirty  feet  behind  the  right 
wing  of  the  fagade,  looking  like  a  small  building 
stupidly  placed  almost  in  front  of  the  mausoleum. 
The  one  remaining  storey  of  the  left  wing  also 
gives  the  impression  of  an  unrelated  building,  so 
that  only  after  some  thought  is  it  possible  to  dis- 
cover what  the  original  front  must  really  have 
been  like.  The  fall  of  the  portal  wall  has  revealed 
the  dome  with  its  drum  rising  above  the  front  of 
the  tomb  proper,  which  is  but  little  wider  than  the 
drum  itself;  the  effect  being  like  that  of  some 
immense  and  glorified  mushroom  of  the  pointed 
species  that  never  opens  out.  The  entire  build- 
ing is  built  with  small,  rather  thin  bricks,  unglazed 
and  in  colour  a  warm  buff;  it  is  ornamented  with 
patterns  of  endless  variety  and  complexity — either 
glazed  bands  of  mosaic  tiling,  or  designs  (and 
even  Arabic  inscriptions  of  large  size)  made  by 


28       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

placing  blue  bricks  in  fixed  positions  among  the 
yellow.  The  only  colour  employed  in  these  deco- 
rations is  blue,  in  shades  varying  from  a  deep 
sapphire,  rich  and  glowing,  up  to  a  brilliant  but 
fairly  dark  turquoise,  really  more  green  than  blue. 
In  the  mosaics,  white  is  used  to  form  boundary 
lines,  flowers,  or  even  letters,  which  in  the  smaller 
inscriptions  are  written  in  flowing  Arabic  script, 
whilst  the  larger  ones,  made  with  separate  bricks, 
are  composed  in  the  rectilinear  block  character 
called  Kufic. 

The  main  entrance  to  the  tomb-chamber  is 
closed  by  a  door  of  pierced  wood,  so  the  visitor 
must  enter  at  the  left  by  a  dark  corridor  vaulted 
with  a  series  of  little  domes  borne  by  pendentives. 
The  interior  of  the  tomb  is  built  on  the  plan  in- 
variably found  in  all  buildings  at  Samarqand ;  one 
of  noble  simplicity,  but  in  detail  so  varied  as  never 
to  pall.  The  four  walls  enclose  a  square,  each 
wall  having  in  the  centre  an  arched  opening  with 
a  reveal  of  several  feet,  forming  a  niche  filled  with 
stalactite  vaulting,  that  looks  like  nothing  so 
much  as  a  giant  honeycomb  built  by  some  mons- 
trous species  of  bee;  this  vaulting  starts  from  the 
rear  wall  and  curves  forward  to  within  about  two 
feet  of  the  main  wall  surface,  making  roughly  a 
half  dome  over  a  niche  rectangular  in  plan.  The 
square  area  of  the  entire  chamber  is  covered  by  a 
dome;  to  say  that  it  is  carried  on  pendentives, 
would  scarcely  convey  an  idea  of  the  curious  con- 
struction; the  circular  drum  rests  on  an  octagon 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  29 

obtained  by  cutting  off  the  corners  of  the  square 
enclosed  by  the  four  walls,  with  a  plane  pierced 
by  a  vaulted  niche ;  the  sort  of  corbel  thus  formed 
offers  a  triangular  surface  to  carry  the  drum,  but 
at  the  level  of  the  string  course  consists  of  no  more 
than  two  tiny  triangles  joining  the  wall.  From 
below,  the  eye  looks  into  a  vaulted  surface  that 
transforms  the  square  into  an  octagon,  in  outline 
scarcely  different  to  the  circle  above;  the  whole 
system  is  highly  ingenious  and  successful.  .  .  . 
The  walls  of  the  tomb  are  covered  and  patterned, 
to  about  a  man's  height,  with  small  octagons  of 
marble,  now  almost  aquamarine  in  colour.  This 
marble  surface  is  finished  by  two  ornamented 
bands;  the  upper  part  of  the  walls  is  laid  with 
stucco  wrought  into  a  net-work  of  complicated 
designs,  in  the  old  days  painted  with  bright  colours 
of  which  faint  traces  still  remain.  The  dome  shows 
a  few  remnants  of  what  was  once  an  elaborate 
wooden  casing,  probably  of  cedar. 

The  greater  part  of  the  floor-space  is  railed  off 
by  a  very  low  screen  of  pierced  marble,  forming  an 
enclosure  where  the  cenotaphs  of  Timur  and  his 
family  stand,  the  actual  graves  being — as  is  usual 
in  the  Orient — situated  in  a  subterranean  vault. 
Timur's  monument,  made  of  two  blocks  of  green- 
black  nephrite  marble,  is  placed  near,  but  not 
actually  in,  the  centre  of  the  building;  for  Orien- 
tals frequently  neglect,  or  even  avoid,  the  central 
position  we  should  hold  essential  to  a  prominent 
tomb.     The  largest  and — except  for  its  colour — 


30       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  most  conspicuous  of  the  cenotaphs  lies  close 
to  the  main  entrance,  between  two  high  poles  of 
natural  wood  not  unlike  slender  masts;  fastened 
at  right  angles  to  the  poles,  are  small  wooden  rods, 
from  which  depend,  in  one  case  the  remnants  of 
a  banner,  in  the  other  a  short  bushy  horse's  tail, 
— an  emblem  in  these  parts  used  to  mark  the  graves 
of  honourable  or  holy  persons.  A  similar  pole 
and  trophy  stand  in  one  of  the  great  niches.  Access 
to  the  crypt  with  the  real  tomb  being  gained  by  a 
flight  of  steps  in  the  comer  of  the  building,  un- 
protected by  railings,  the  sombre  void  seems 
newly  revealed  by  the  withdrawal  of  some  mys- 
terious slab.  As  my  turbaned  guide  goes  down  the 
steps,  light  in  hand,  and  disappears  around  the 
comer,  I  am  instantly  reminded  of  The  Arabian 
Nights,  with  their  magic  stairs,  such  as  Aladdin 
descended  into  the  jewelled  treasure-cave.  The 
vault-like  crypt  is  only  lighted  by  tapers  placed 
in  the  centre  on  wooden  standards,  from  which 
the  wax  drips  steadily.  It  is  impressive  to  find 
the  tomb  of  this  fourteenth  century  conqueror,  the 
Asiatic  Napoleon,  still  visited  by  many  in  our 
strange  twentieth  century;  but  my  mood  is  some- 
what disturbed,  when  I  am  asked  to  deposit  a  few 
kopecks  in  the  hollows  scooped  in  the  tomb-stone 
to  receive  offerings  to  pay  for  the  tapers  burning 
beside  the  grave;  dignity  seems  quite  as  rare  in 
far-off  changeless  Asia  as  in  our  modern  Europe. 

But  even  so,  this  dim  vault  affords  me  a  curious 
proof  of  the  overwhelming  power  of  imaginative 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  31 

genius.  I  have  read  not  a  little  about  Timur 
Lang,  so  the  facts  of  his  career  are  familiar  to  me; 
I  can  readily  recall  the  ferocious  conqueror  who 
passed  through  Damghan,  "raving,  impatient, 
desperate  and  mad,"  and  left,  as  a  sign  of  his  hor- 
rible vengeance,  four  towers  built  with  human 
heads  cemented  in  mud,  which  were  "so  high  that 
a  man  could  scarcely  throw  a  stone  over  them"; 
and  were  seen  by  Ruy  Gonzalez  de  Clavijo,  passing 
through  on  an  embassy  almost  a  quarter  of  a 
century  later;  yet  this  historical  image  vanishes 
like  mist,  giving  way  to  the  glowing  vision  of 
Marlowe's  high-speaking  (yes,  at  times — ^if  you 
will — bombastic)  hero;  that  Tamburlane  who, 
like  leaping  flame,  incarnates  the  exuberant  ardour 
of  Elizabethan  glory.  Here  in  this  gusty  vault, 
standing  beside  Timur's  grave  in  his  birthplace 
Samarqand,  the  reality  lies  for  me,  not  in  the 
tomb  and  in  history,  but  rather  in  the  lover  of 
"divine  Zenocrate,"  from  whose  lips  there  fell 
some  of  the  noblest  accents  English  poetry  has 
ever  heard;  through  the  semi-dark  I  catch  the 
sounding  syllables: — 

"What  is  beauty,  saith  my  sufferings,  then? 
If  all  the  pens  that  ever  poets  held 
Had  fed  the  feeling  of  their  masters'  thoughts, 
And  every  sweetness  that  inspired  their  hearts, 
Their  minds,  and  muses  on  admired  themes: 
If  all  the  heavenly  quintessence  they  still 
From  their  immortal  flowers  of  poesy. 
Wherein,  as  in  a  mirror,  we  perceive 


32       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

The  highest  reaches  of  a  human  wit; 
If  these  had  made  one  poem's  period, 
And  all  combined  in  beauty's  worthiness, 
Yet  should  there  hover  in  their  restless  heads 
One  thought,  one  grace,  one  wonder,  at  the  least, 
Which  into  words  no  virtue  can  digest." 

Leaving  dreams  and  the  tomb  of  Timur  Lang 
behind,  I  now  take  my  way  toward  the  native 
town  on  whose  outskirts  the  mausoleum  stands. 
The  ancient  city  is  approached,  first  through  an 
open  square  lying  between  it  and  the  Russian 
town,  with  fine  vistas  of  the  distant  snow-peaks; 
then  by  a  long  rather  wide  street,  where  a  deep 
black  bog  serves  as  roadway.  This  unattractive 
avenue  is  bordered  by  low  wooden  houses,  usually 
one-storeyed,  but  sometimes  completed  by  a  second 
storey  projecting  like  a  balcony ;  these  hovels  are 
used  as  booths,  where  all  the  industries,  filth, 
stench,  and  disease  of  an  oriental  town  are  gathered 
together.  There  are  only  two  things  in  any  way 
peculiar  to  Samarqand;  the  first  is  a  species  of 
unhappy  quail,  kept  in  tiny  wicker  cages  shaped 
like  bee-hives,  to  be  used — I  am  told — like  cocks 
in  a  bird  fight;  the  second  is  the  women.  They 
are  veiled,  but  not  as  in  other  parts  of  the  Orient. 
The  sheath — since  there  is  no  other  name  to  de- 
scribe it — ^in  which  they  are  enveloped,  does  not 
hang  down  over  the  face  pierced  by  eyelets,  neither 
is  it  drawn  across,  leaving  a  hole  through  which 
one  eye  just  peers;  it  wraps  the  head  after  the 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  33 

fashion  of  a  European  shawl,  and  is  fastened  under 
the  chin,  whilst  the  entire  oval  of  the  face  is 
covered  by  a  mask  of  stiff  black,  like  a  close-meshed 
wire  netting.  This  visard  is  impenetrable  to  the 
gaze  of  passers-by,  unless  the  women  chance  to 
pass  in  front  of  a  very  strong  light ;  even  then,  no 
more  than  an  outline  is  visible.  The  effect  of  this 
rounded  black  mask  is  startling,  as  it  emerges 
from  the  mantle  that  wraps  the  women  from  the 
crown  of  the  head  to  the  hem  of  their  gown. 
These  shrouds  are  made  of  some  cotton  material, 
in  either  dark  blue  or  blackish  grey;  and  are 
decorated  with  two  bands,  starting  from  em- 
broidered squares  placed  where  the  edges  of  the 
garment  are  fastened  together  under  the  chin,  then 
following  up  the  hem,  until  they  almost  meet  at 
the  centre  of  the  head,  from  which  they  fall  free, 
gradually  narrowing  until  they  are  held  in  place 
near  the  bottom  of  the  mantle  by  two  smaller 
squares  of  embroidery. 

The  main  street  does  not  lead  directly  into  the 
Registan,  but  passes  behind  the  shabby  row  of 
wooden  booths  which  forms  one  side  of  the  square. 
The  celebrated  Registan,  or  market-place,  is  a 
large  square  space  bordered  on  three  sides  by 
mosques  that  must,  in  their  prime,  have  possessed 
such  glory  of  colour  and  form  as  made  of  this 
market-place  one  of  the  splendours  of  the  world. 
All  three  mosques  are  alike  in  general  plan,  but 
each  varies  in  detail  and  has  its  own  individuality. 
The  main  feature  is  an  immense,  nearly  square 
3 


34       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

wall-screen,  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  fagade,  and 
pierced  by  a  gigantic  pointed  arch,  leaving  no 
more  of  the  wall  surface  than  a  comparatively 
narrow  strip  on  either  side,  and  a  small  expanse 
above;  this  archway,  being  closed  at  a  depth  of 
some  twenty  feet  by  a  wall,  forms  an  enormous 
ffat  niche.  The  surface  of  the  rear  wall  is  occu- 
pied, up  to  the  spring  of  the  arch,  by  a  composition 
formed  by  a  large  archway  flanked  by  two  smaller 
ones,  surmounted  by  two  others  rising  to  the 
crown  of  the  centre  archway;  these  openings  do 
not  pierce  the  wall,  but  are  in  their  turn  walled  up 
to  form  smaller  niches,  of  which  the  middle  one 
is  deeper  than  those  at  the  side;  these  are  cut  by 
the  real  doorways — rectangular  openings  of  moder- 
ate size.  The  great  tympammi  above  this  series 
of  niches,  is  bare  and  broken  only  by  a  tiny  open- 
ing that  permits  a  fleck  of  sky  to  peer  through  with 
charming  effect.  The  deep  reveals,  seen  in  rela- 
tion to  the  great  depth  of  the  main  opening,  are 
very  striking  and  add  to  the  sense  of  size;  while 
the  large  grouped  arches — being  in  relation  to  the 
opening  of  the  immense  niche  in  which  they  stand, 
very  small — give  such  scale  as  makes  the  main 
arch  appear  gigantic.  The  conception  is  very  noble 
and  most  imposing.  The  narrow  strips  of  wall 
surface  on  each  side  of  the  great  archway,  are 
treated  with  vertical  ornament  carried  clear  to  the 
top  of  the  wall-screen — like  vast  pilasters  flanking 
the  portal — and  interrupting  the  horizontal  band 
which  runs  across  just  over  the  keystone.     On 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  35 

either  side  of  this  great  central  mass,  is  a  low, 
rather  short  wing,  terminated  by  a  lofty  minaret 
— ^very  slender  and  tapering  toward  the  top,  where 
a  series  of  corbels  finishes  it  with  a  kind  of  capital, 
formerly  surmounted  by  an  elaborate  cage  of 
pierced  wood  for  the  muezzin  to  call  the  name  of 
Allah.  *  These  low  wings  and  slim  towers  enhance 
the  majesty  of  the  portal  screen. 

These  mosques,  like  the  Tomb  of  Timur  Lang 
and  all  the  other  buildings  in  Samarqand,  were 
built  with  small  buff  bricks,  entirely  covered  by 
a  veneer  of  choicer  materials  in  patterns  of  end- 
less variety; — either  radiant  tile-mosaics  in  every 
shade  of  blue,  or  else  yellow  bricks  of  finer  quality 
with  designs  in  enamelled  brick  and  tile.  This 
exquisite  facing  has  in  the  course  of  centuries  fallen 
away  in  places,  exposing  wide  areas  of  tawny  brick. 
What  we  see  to-day  is,  therefore,  only  the  crumb- 
ling wreck  of  vanished  glories;  even  so  it  is  very 
beautiful,  for  it  is  architecture  with  such  noble 
simplicity  of  conception  as  needs  no  ornament. 
When  intact,  glittering  with  their  exquisite  con- 
trasts of  yellow  and  varied  blue,  these  mosques 
must  have  been  splendid  beyond  anything  we  see 
in  our  drab  modem  world.  In  the  spring,  sil- 
houetted against  the  pearled  or  opalescent  tones 
of  distant  mountains,  under  a  sky  as  brilliant  as 
their  own  enamels,  they  must  have  resembled  one 


'  For  an  example  of  these  wooden  cages,  see  the  photograph 
of  the  minaret  at  Samnan  facing  page  207. 


36       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

of  those  magic  pictures  we  imagine  but  never  see 

with  fleshly  eyes 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  native  town,  northward 
from  the  Registan,  are  the  ruins  of  the  Mosque  of 
Bibi  Khanum,  built  by  Timur  in  honour  of  a  pe- 
cuHarly  beloved  wife,  and  finally  shattered  by  can- 
non, when  in  1866  the  Russians  took  Samarqand. 
In  the  morning  I  could  not  enter  because,  being 
Friday,  the  Moslem  Sarths  were  at  prayer,  seated 
cross-legged  on  the  ground  in  regular  rows — like 
chessmen.  Now  it  is  deserted;  a  little  door  admits 
me  into  a  neglected  courtyard  filled  with  desolate 
locust-trees,  stripped  bare  and  shivering  under  the 
solemn  sombre  sky.  In  the  centre  the  famous  desk 
built  with  huge  slabs  of  stone  to  hold  a  gigantic 
copy  of  the  Qur'an,  still  remains,  and  is — they 
tell  me — still  thought  to  confer  fertility  on  sterile 
women  who  crawl  beneath  it.  The  main  gate- 
way of  the  enclosure  is  in  ruins,  but  standing. 
The  mosque  is  built  against  the  rear  wall.  Its 
mighty  portal  is  ijot  flanked  by  wings,  as  in  the 
Registan,  but  is  buttressed  by  two  minarets  ter- 
minating the  wall  after  the  fashion  of  engaged 
columns.  The  majestic  mass  of  this  portal,  and 
the  relation  between  its  main  arch  and  the  smaller 
one  within,  give  the  fagade  a  dignified  simplicity 
that  no  church  I  have  ever  seen  can  surpass.  The 
tympanum  of  the  rear  wall  has  fallen,  revealing 
all  that  is  left  of  the  outer  dome — a  fissured  quar- 
ter still  glittering  with  tiles  of  deep  turquoise  blue. 
Inside,  the  same  proud  simplicity  prevails;  just 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  37 

four  walls  enclosing  a  square,  each  one  with  an 
arched  sinkage  in  the  centre  offering  a  motive 
for  decoration.  These  walls,  with  the  help  of 
comer  corbels  like  those  at  Timur's  Mausoleum, 
support  a  great  cupola  that  calls  to  mind  how: — 

"In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree: 
Where  Alph  the  sacred  river  ran." 

Viewed  from  outside,  the  buff  walls  and  the  great 
drum  which  carries  the  shattered  cupola — green- 
ish blue  patterned  with  inscriptions  in  stately 
Kufic  characters  six  feet  high — form  a  most 
impressive  wreck. 

Down  the  hillside  below  the  Mosque  of  Bibi 
Khanum,  lies  the  Shah  Zinda  group  of  mauso- 
leums. The  entrance  is  at  the  bottom  of  a  small 
but  steep  ravine,  down  which  a  flight  of  stone 
steps  descends  to  a  particularly  soft  black  bog, 
doing  duty  as  a  road.  A  gateway,  reproducing 
the  main  features  of  the  mosque  portals  on  a 
smaller  scale,  leads  to  a  restricted  level  space  with 
a  portico  for  prayer  to  the  left — a  modem  build- 
ing whose  wooden  roof  is  gaudily  painted  in  greens, 
blues,  reds,  and  gold,  resting  on  grey  mast-like  pil- 
lars of  wood.  A  paved  and  narrow  path  stretches 
up  the  steep  hillside  away  to  the  distant  sum- 
mit; first  of  all  steps,  then  a  sharp  incline,  and  at 
the  last  a  gentle  slope.  Bordering  both  sides,  is  a 
succession  of  mausoleums,  built  to  honour  either 
holy  men,  or  relatives  and  descendants  of  TimOr 


38       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

Lang.  They  are  small  domed  buildings  of  ex- 
quisite workmanship,  more  fully  covered  with 
tiles  than  the  mosques,  and  also  better  preserved. 
The  richness  and  complexity  of  their  mosaic  defies 
description  by  word,  and  would  all  but  defy  a 
rendering  with  lines.  These  lovely  tombs  look 
like  shining  enamels  or  carven  jewels,  deep  sap- 
phire blue  in  general  effect,  but  patterned  with 
varying  tones  paling  out  to  verdant  turquoise. 
They  are  all  crowned  with  variously  shaped  small 
domes,  showing  wide  surfaces  of  buff  above  the 
encrusted  walls;  domes  that  group  themselves  in 
curious  combinations  as  the  pathway  bends  be- 
tween the  walls  and  mounts  the  hill.  On  the 
level  at  the  further  end  of  the  street  above  me, 
the  brown  boughs  of  a  bare  tree  lean  over  the  wall, 
swaying  gently.  How  lovely  they  must  be,  when 
in  spring  they  are  wreathed  with  fine  emerald 
leaves,  flinging  a  diaper  of  shadow  across  the  dull 
saffron  walls!  Even  to-day  the  prospect  is  full 
of  charm,  looking  down  the  hillside  out  across  the 
picturesque  intermixture  of  domes  and  wall- 
surfaces,  with  their  delightful  contrast  between 
tawny  bricks  and  shining  tiles  of  bright  enameled 
blue, — away  to  the  range  of  snow-peaks  coldly 

blue-white  under  a  sky  of  leaden  grey 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  narrow  street  the  Mosque 
of  Shah  Zinda  is  entered  between  two  delicately 
carved  doors  wrought  with  deep-cut  foliage,  to 
which  are  attached  two  metal  handles  so  pierced 
as  to  look  like  brazen  lace.     Thence  a  little  portal 


The  Great  Mosque 
The  Registan,  Samarqand 


The  Mosque  of  Ulug  Beg 
The  Registan,  Samarqand 


The  Mosque  of  Bibi  Khanum,  Samarqand 


Mosque  of  Shih  Zinda,  Samarqand 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  39 

leads  out  on  the  barren  heights  now  called  Afrasi- 
yab,  where  the  prehistoric  town  of  Maracanda 
once  lay.  It  is  a  blackened  expanse,  unkempt 
and  filled  with  graves;  very  sordid  but  offering  a 
splendid  view  across  the  city  (where  Bibl  Khanum's 
Mosque  towers  near  at  hand)  to  those  snow  mount- 
ains which  engirdle  all  that  is  left  of  Timur's 
Samarqand.  The  name  itself  is  full  of  magic, 
but  of  romance  the  modem  town  can  offer  no 
trace ;  these  ruins  of  buff  and  blue  lying  below  and 
before  me,  are — however — even  in  their  dilapida- 
tion, so  truly  noble  as  well  to  merit  a  visit.  It 
is  quite  probable  that  in  a  flood  of  springtide 
sun,  under  skies  of  radiant  blue,  amid  newly 
green  trees  waving  softly  under  the  shadow 
of  the  shimmering  hills  of  snow,  Samarqand 
might  even  at  present  possess  a  loveliness  I 
can  scarcely  divine  on  so  dreary  a  winter  day. 


February  14*?* 
In  Turkestan  permission  to  take  photographs 
is  even  more  difficult  to  obtain,  more  involved  in 
endless  formality,  than  in  Russia  itself — which  is 
saying  not  a  little.  Yesterday  I  spent  the  greater 
part  of  an  afternoon  driving  about  in  pursuit  of 
my  permit.  Samarqand's  supply  of  generals  is 
apparently  without  limit,  since  my  search  led  me 
to  five,  all  very  courteous;  the  first  declared  him- 
self incompetent  to  grant  my  request,  and  referred 
me  to  a  second ;  he  told  me  to  address  myself  to  a 


40       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

third,  who  proved  to  be  ill,  so  his  wife  sent  me  to 
another;  by  this  one  I  was  directed  in  despair  to 
a  Tartar  general,  who  finally  gave  me  the  neces- 
sary document.  When  this  troublesome  permit 
had  at  last  been  secured,  it  was  far  too  late  in  the 
evening  to  use  a  camera;  to-day  snow  is  falling, 
so  photography  is  all  but  out  of  the  question. 
The  path  of  the  foolish  foreigner  in  Turkestan  is 
indeed  hedged  about  with  awesome  regulations 
and  menace. 

This  morning  the  trees  of  the  nearer  hills  are 
draped  in  white,  but  the  mountain  tops  have 
vanished  behind  grey  veils  of  mist.  A  few  flakes 
of  snow  are  still  drifting  idly  through  the  sombre 
air.  In  the  Registan,  the  view  from  the  roof  of 
Tillah  Karl's  Mosque  is  very  striking;  below  me 
is  the  slimy  square  (with  even  to-day  a  few 
loungers)  dominated  by  the  two  great  mosques, 
with  their  minarets  pointing  skywards  like  fingers ; 
behind  me  are  the  shattered  walls  of  Bibl  Khanum's 
colossal  mosque,  emerging  from  the  native  hovels ; 
feathery  wreaths  of  snow  lie  on  walls  and  ledges; 
from  time  to  time  a  little  flurry  drifts  listlessly 
down  from  the  ominous  sky.  The  mosques  are 
really  nothing  more  than  open  squares  enclosed 
by  arcades,  with  a  lofty  arch — giving  on  a  room 
used  for  prayer — in  the  middle  of  each  side;  in 
the  centre  of  this  courtyard  there  is  a  very  small 
edifice  of  brick,  but  no  signs  of  water  tanks — in 
other  lands  an  indispensable  part  of  mosques. 
The  portal  screen  rears  its  vast  expanse  above  the 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  41 

roofs,  in  the  dominant  manner  of  stage-walls  in 
antique  Roman  theatres. 

When  I  reach  the  Tomb  of  Tlmur,  snow  is 
falling  thickly  and  quite  fast.  The  buff  walls 
with  their  scaling  tiles,  rising  toward  the  striking 
mass  of  drum  and  dome,  patterned  and  still  partly 
blue,  are  extremely  picturesque  when  seen  to-day 
through  a  vale  of  drifting  snow.  The  courtyard 
has  poetry  amid  all  this  motion  of  filmy  white; 
the  snow  seems  not  so  much  a  succession  of  falling 
flakes  as  a  continuous  weaving  of  white  lines 
crossing  one  another  steadily  and  softly.  The 
fluttering  of  this  white  web  has  about  it  something 
magical,  that  lends  an  I  know  not  what  of  pathos 
to  all  it  enfolds. 

February  I5*^ 
On  leaving  Samarqand  this  morning,  there  was 
a  heavy  fall  of  snow,  which  continued  as  we  moved 
slowly  through  the  desolate  scenery  of  an  unin- 
habited plain  covered  with  white;  now  the  snow 
has  ceased,  and  the  clouds  have  lifted  enough  to 
show  white  hills  at  the  foot  of  still  invisible  mount- 
ains. Here  in  Turkestan,  the  ticket-collector  is 
continually  passing  through  the  train,  preceded 
by  the  guard  and  a  uniformed  soldier  carrying  a 
gun  with  a  fixed  bayonet;  sometimes  the  soldier 
is  a  Turkoman,  wearing  the  immense  shaggy  black 
cloak  of  his  people,  but  with  a  cap  instead  of  the 
usual  fur  bonnet — a  concession,  I  suppose,  to 
official  uniform.     This  martial  procession  is  quite 


42       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

awesome  to  the  meek  European,  so  frequently 
reminded  that  he  travels  in  Turkestan  only  on 
sufferance  and  imder  surveillance ;  officials  holding 
telegrams  appear  at  stations  to  enquire  if  one  is 
the  person  whose  passage  is  signalled  in  the 
despatch;  soldiers  on  the  train  have  heard  that  a 
foreigner  of  such  and  such  a  strangely  perverted 
name  is  expected  to  travel  through;  so  there  is 
a  general  sense  of  being  observed,  which  makes 
Russia  with  its  passport  formalities,  seem  an 
easy-going  land  of  the  free. 

At  every  station,  somewhere  on  or  near  the 
platform,  there  is  a  rough  table  made  of  boards, 
painted  yellow  and  laid  loosely  upon  equally 
yellow  posts  driven  in  the  ground.  It  forms  a 
rough  buffet  behind  which  two  to  four  women 
stand,  each  with  a  boiling  samovar  before  her. 
The  travellers  rush  up  to  have  their  own  teapots 
filled  with  boiling  water  from  the  samovars. 
Sometimes  the  women  come  scurrying  out  of 
nearby  houses  with  the  bubbling  urns  in  their 
hands,  just  as  the  train  is  about  to  leave  the  station ; 
then  there  is  a  great  "to-do."  Bread  is  also  sold, 
and  bottles  of  some  milky  liquid  that  must  be  a 
kind  of  koumiss;  sometimes  there  are  pointed 
melons  with  smooth  rinds  of  a  pale  lemon  colour, 
each  one  neatly  done  up  in  a  harness  of  vegetable 
fibre,  so  it  can  be  carried  without  slipping  out  of 
the  hand.  The  meat  of  these  melons  is  snowy 
white  and  deHciously  flavored. 

In  the  second-class  carriages  are  many  Sarths, 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  43 

apparently  more  prosperous  than  those  who  ap- 
pear at  stations.  Two  things  about  their  clothes 
are  conspicuous:  the  end  of  their  turban,  falling 
far  enough  down  the  left  side  to  touch  the  shoulder, 
■ — and  the  sleeves  of  their  outer  coat,  which  drop  a 
foot  or  more  below  the  hands  when  the  arms  hang 
straight,  making  the  men  look  as  though  they  had 
lost  their  forearms;  sometimes  they  cross  their 
hands  within  the  sleeves,  which  then  serve  as 
muffs.  These  long  sleeves  must  have  been  common 
in  mediaeval  Russia,  since  I  have  seen  them  both 
in  old  prints  and  in  the  costumes  of  a  legendary 
opera.  Some  of  the  men  wear  a  girdle  over  the 
outer  cloak;  others  leave  it  free  to  hang  loose, 
only  girding  up  the  inner  garments.  Nearly  all 
have  boots  of  supple  leather,  thrust  into  stout 
slippers  that  can  be  discarded  on  entering  the 
houses.  They  all  smoke  a  water-pipe,  or  narghile, 
quite  unlike  the  Turkish  ones  commonly  seen  in 
the  West.  These  have  a  lower  part  shaped  like 
a  jar  and  made  of  brass,  out  of  which  a  stiff  stem 
of  metal  or  reed  projects  at  an  acute  angle, — the 
flexible  leather  pipe  of  the  hookah  being  apparently 
unknown  in  these  parts.  The  upper  stem,  coal- 
basin,  and  pipe-bowl,  are  more  or  less  like  those 
in  use  elsewhere.  In  smoking  they  usually  place 
a  finger  over  a  little  vent  in  the  pipe's  brazen  bowl, 
and  then  draw  furiously.  Here  at  the  stations, 
a  man  with  a  lighted  pipe  stands  on  the  plat- 
form, just  as  he  would  before  a  cafe  in  the  street 
of  a  town ;  passengers  rush  up  in  turn  and  give  him 


44       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

a  quarter  kopeck  for  a  few  puffs,  usually  with  the 
vendor  still  holding  the  pipe. 

At  Kagan  I  am  obliged  to  take  a  little  branch 
train,  that  has  no  first-class  carriages.  One  of 
my  fellow-travellers  in  the  car  where  we  are  all 
piled,  is  a  well-to-do  merchant  travelling  from 
Khokand.  He  wears  a  long  garment — rather 
like  a  frock-coat — made  of  European-looking 
cloth,  \inder  which  there  is  a  vest  of  the  same 
material,  with  a  high  standing  collar  buttoned 
tightly  round  a  green  silk  scarf.  The  coat  is  held 
in  at  the  waist  by  a  broad  belt,  with  ornaments 
of  brass  rudely  shaped  like  the  letter  S.  His  high 
black  boots  are  of  soft  leather,  with  a  neat  slipper 
over  the  foot.  His  head  is  covered  by  a  conical 
and  embroidered  skull-cap,  around  which  a  turban 
of  fine  white  silk  is  wound,  so  that  only  the  point 
of  the  cap  can  be  seen ;  but  this  turban  is  unwound 
and  laid  aside  when  the  train  is  moving.  He  also 
possesses  a  long  and  thoroughly  European  over- 
coat of  greenish  blue.  With  his  black  beard  and 
neat  clothes,  he  makes  quite  a  fine  figure.  I  and 
my  luggage  attract  his  undivided  attention;  he 
has  just  enquired  of  the  guide  I  engaged  in  Samar- 
qand — an  honest  Russian  from  the  German - 
speaking  provinces — where  I  come  from ;  of  course 
he  takes  me  for  a  commercial  traveller,  tourists 
being  almost  unknown  in  this  country;  hence  his 
professional  interest  in  the — to  him — enormous 
quantity  of  my  luggage.  While  I  am  occupying 
his  polite  ciuiosity,   the  little  train  puffs  along 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  45 

slowly  over  a  desert  plain,  out  of  which  Bukhara 
finally  emerges  about  six  o'clock. 


February  I6*^ 
As  the  native  city  is  at  a  distance  from  the  Hotel 
Ttiran — quite  a  clean  little  place,  where  fresh  bed- 
ding is  to  be  had,  but  at  a  tariff  higher  than  that 
for  linen  already  used ! — I  took  a  carriage  to  drive 
to  the  bank,  of  whose  existence  Bukhariat  drivers 
and  natives  appear  profoundly  ignorant.  We 
finally  reached  the  walls  engirdling  the  town 
proper,  and  entered  after  much  delay  in  front  of 
a  gateway,  where  a  tangle  of  carts,  teamsters,  and 
onlookers,  was  vociferously  engaged  in  trying  to 
get  the  teams  through  heavy  mud  and  up  a  mons- 
trous hummock  in  the  road.  After  much  driving 
about  through  the  bottomless  bog  of  streets,  where 
two  carriages  can  scarcely  pass,  the  bank  was 
reached;  whence — my  business  ended — I  set  out 
on  foot,  accompanied  by  my  guide,  to  see  the 
ancient  and  famous  city  of  the  Amirs. 

It  is  another  of  the  raw  grey  days  that  I  am 
beginning  to  think  inevitable  in  Turkestan. 
Great  Bukhara,  the  mightiest  mart  in  mid-Asia, 
lies  within  walls  of  clay  some  twenty  feet  high 
but  is  no  more  than  a  net-work  of  moderately 
wide  impaved  streets,  debouching  into  small 
market-places  that  chance  or  habit  have  placed 
here  and  there.  With  a  blazing  sun  to  illumine 
the  brilliant  costumes,  and  cast  over  everything 


46       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  enchantment  of  golden  Hght  mingled  with 
shadow,  the  city  might  be  picturesque;  for  there 
is  no  doubt  that,  to  reveal  its  secrets,  the  Orient 
requires  the  splendour  of  sun-rays  shooting  through 
breathless  haze.  To-day  under  a  chilly  sullen 
sky,  all  things  appear  lifeless  and  dull.  The 
sordid  is  so  much  more  patent  than  anything 
else,  as  to  be  painful.  Divested  of  the  contrast 
between  shadow  and  reflected  light,  the  walls  are 
obviously  built  with  mud.  The  roadways  form 
a  viscous  bog,  the  mere  sight  of  which  is  nauseous, 
whilst  walking  in  the  black  slime  is  as  repulsive 
as  it  is  fatiguing.  The  most  conspicuous  wares 
displayed  for  sale  are  trumpery  objects  brought 
from  the  Occident,  such  as  may  be  seen  in  the 
poorest  quarters  of  any  western  city.  The 
costumes  are  generally  made  of  stuffs  broadly 
striped  with  brilliant  colours,  obviously  in- 
digenous and  therefore  prettier  than  the  printed 
cottons  shipped  from  Moscow;  yet  even  they  are 
ineffective  in  the  drab  light  of  so  sombre  a  day. 
It  may  be  that  in  the  sensation  of  the  already 
seen,  I  am  merely  paying  the  penalty  exacted  of 
all  who  travel  much;  but  certainly  after  Algeria 
and  Tunis,  Bukhara's  renowned  bazar  offers  no 
surprise.  In  point  of  picturesqueness,  it  cannot 
be  compared  to  the  cleaner  and  better  built  bazars 
of  Tunis;  while  both  the  costumes  and  those  who 
wear  them  lack  that  distinction  which  marks  the 

Arab 

The  very  name  of  Bukhara  has  for  me  always 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  47 

been  a  potent  spell,  evoking  a  princely  city  of 
learning  in  old  days,  with  a  boundless  bazar  nobly 
vaulted,  where — through  apertures  left  in  the 
vault-crowns — quivering  beams  of  light  shoot 
down  and  leap  from  gorgeous  stuff  to  gorgeous 
stuff.  This  fabulous  city  I  did  not  expect  to  find 
in  reality;  but  I  did  hope  to  encounter  something 
more  strange  and  beautiful  than  the  city  I  see 
to-day.  A  sense  of  depression  and  disillusion, 
vague  but  hard  to  dismiss,  has  in  consequence 
stolen  over  me.  Perhaps  had  I  visited  Bukhara 
before  similar  places  in  other  lands,  certainly  had 
I  seen  it  for  the  first  time  under  sunlight  falling 
from  a  sky  of  ultramarine,  I  might  have  felt  other- 
wise; since  these  cold  and  sober  days  make  one 
keenly  conscious  of  all  the  filth,  cruelty,  and 
carelessness,  which  form  so  real  and  horrible  a 
part  of  life  in  towns  of  the  eastward  world. 

The  boggy  streets  through  which  I  pick  my 
way  with  difficulty,  are  for  the  most  part  covered 
over  by  flat  roofs,  borne  by  round  beams  of  no 
great  size,  and  from  time  to  time  pierced  by  open- 
ings to  admit  the  light.  Both  sides  of  these  slimy 
sombre  passages  are  bordered  by  diminutive 
shops,  where  merchants  squat  among  their  goods 
in  oriental  style — though  I  notice  that  here,  in- 
stead of  sitting  cross-legged,  they  kneel  with  legs 
stretched  out  behind  them,  so  the  body  rests  on 
the  upturned  heels.  Most  of  the  wares  are  either 
cotton  stuffs,  probably  of  European  manufacture 
and  shoddy  articles  of  household  use  from  the 


48       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

West,  or  else  native  food  in  various  stages  of  filth. 
There  is  nothing  attractive  for  sale  except  pointed 
caps — small  gaily  made  affairs,  which  the  men 
wear  with  the  peaks  emerging  from  the  centre  of 

their  turbans In  some  places  the  streets 

pass — ^unroofed — between  the  walls  of  houses 
built,  like  all  Bukhara,  of  sun-dried  clay.  In 
such  places  the  most  distinctive  and  the  only 
picturesque  sights  are  the  storks'  nests  on  the 
apex  of  every  tower  and  on  the  comer  of  every 
crumbling  mosque-fagade.  They  stand  out  con- 
spicuously in  clumsy  masses  now  empty,  with 
neither  occupant  nor  visitor,  unless  it  be  a  small 
grey  and  black  crow,  who  may  by  chance  perch 
jauntily  on  the  edge.  These  bowl-shaped  nests 
produce  a  most  ludicrous  effect,  overhanging  and 
half  crushing  the  walls  or  domes  they  cap.  In 
bazars  and  streets  alike,  one  of  the  most  striking 
things  is  the  endless  quantity  of  pitiful  dogs;  poor 
brutes  half  stupefied  by  disease,  with  hairless 
patches  of  scabby  swollen  skin,  shivering  as  they 
slink  along  in  fear  of  blows  or  stones.  So  many 
heart-wringing  curs  I  never  saw  in  one  place 
before.  The  misery  of  dumb  animals  is  in  all 
countries,  even  among  the  so-called  civilised, 
horrible  enough  to  observe ;  but  here  in  the  indiffer- 
ent Orient,  it  is — to  anyone  afflicted  with  imagina- 
tion— almost  too  ghastly  to  be  endured. 

After  a  little,  my  wanderings  bring  me  to  the 
Registan,  which  is  entirely  filled  with  small  wooden 
booths.     At  one  side  it  joins  a  little  square,  whence 


A  Mosque  and  a  Hawz,  Bukhara 


The  Natives  in  the  Registan,  Bukhara 


The  Registfin,  Bukhara 

(The  figure  in  the  foreground  is  the  merchant  from  Khokand,  who  asked  to  have  his 

photograph  taken) 


A  Group  in  the  Registan,  Bukhdr& 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  49 

the  roadway  rises  suddenly  to  the  fortified  gateway 
of  the  Amir's  citadel,  situated  on  a  slight  eminence, 
but  only  just  visible  over  the  roofs  it  dominates. 
This  square  is  crowded  with  men,  gathered  here 
and  there  in  groups  diversely  occupied.  One  of 
the  largest  is  listening  to  a  story-teller,  who  moves 
about  while  reciting  with  great  volubility  and 
exuberant  gesture.  In  another  place  a  man, 
seated  on  a  rough  platform  covered  with  a  piece 
of  stuff  to  protect  him  against  mud  and  damp,  is 
at  work  polishing  stones  on  a  primitive  emery 
wheel.  From  another  group  the  Khokand  mer- 
chant, whose  interest  I  aroused  on  the  train  com- 
ing to  Bukhara,  detaches  himself  to  follow  me 
and  my  camera,  quite  fascinated  and  finally 
unable  to  keep  from  asking  me  to  take  his  photo- 
graph. Many  of  the  costumes  are  extremely 
brilliant,  being  made  of  bright  stuffs  broadly 
striped  with  different  colours;  sometimes  with  a 
stripe  of  solid  colour  alternating  with  one  in  which 
different  shades  fade  one  into  the  other.  Were 
the  sun  to  cast  his  spell  of  gold  and  shadow-black 
across  the  scene,  it  would  be  gorgeous ;  even  to-day 
beneath  this  lowering  sky  it  is  striking. 

Across  the  Registan,  the  portal  of  a  mosque, 
built  after  the  same  design  as  those  at  Samarqand, 
but  smaller  and  less  impressive,  beetles  above 
the  shoddy  booths.  Here — as  from  nearly  all  the 
Bukhara  mosques — practically  the  whole  of  the 
mosaic  has  fallen,  baring  the  brown  rubble,  to 
which  small  patches  of  blue  cling  only  here  and 


50       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

there.  Judging  by  what  remains,  the  patterns 
of  glazed  brick  so  common  in  Samarqand  were 
not  used  for  decoration  so  much  as  tile-mosaics, 
where  branching  flowers  in  large  vases  and  other 
devices  spread  over  surfaces  subdivided  by  mosaic 
bands.  The  beauty  of  this  work  must  have  been 
great,  yet  it  is  doubtful  whether  the  general  effect 
was  so  fine  as  that  of  the  more  architectural  treat- 
ment at  Samarqand Not  far  from  here 

a  group  of  houses  encloses  a  considerable  area, 
almost  entirely  occupied  by  a  sunken  pool  of 
opaque  and  greenish-black  water,  completely 
surrounded  by  a  flight  of  five  or  six  stone  steps 
descending  to  the  horrible  liquid.  A  few  men 
are  gathered  on  the  lower  steps,  some  laving  their 
feet,  some  washing  mouths  and  hands  as  well  as 
feet,  still  others  collecting  this  infected  water  in 
great  vessels — that  are  nothing  more  than  goat- 
skins sewn  together  with  the  hair  inside — ready 
to  carry  it  away  to  be  sold  for  drinking  and  cook- 
ing. There  being  several  of  these  noisome  pools 
in  different  parts  of  the  town,  the  wonder  is  not 
so  much  that  the  natives  are  afflicted  by  rishta 
worms  and  other  horrid  diseases,  as  that  any  of 
them  can  live.  One  side  of  the  square  occupied 
by  this  particular  hawz  or  tank,  is  bordered  by 
an  unusual  kind  of  mosque  or  prayer-portico.  In 
front  of  a  wall  with  arched  recesses,  lofty  wooden 
columns — in  two  rows  of  ten  each — support  a 
roof  also  of  wood.  These  columns,  placed  on  high 
bases  curiously  carved,  are  very  slender  and  twisted 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  51 

like  a  coiled  snake — bulb-shaped  where  they  rest 
on  the  bases,  then  tapering  toward  the  capitals. 
At  the  top,  where  the  shafts  are  necessarily  very 
small,  masses  of  Arabic  honeycomb  carving  sud- 
denly spread  out  wider  and  wider,  in  a  series  of 
monstrous  capitals  made  in  separate  pieces 
fastened  to  the  pillars;  almost  all  of  them  have 
completely  disappeared,  whilst  in  one  place  a  few 
fragments,  held  together  by  string,  dangle  about 
the  shaft.  This  portico  is  separated  from  the 
square  by  a  wooden  screen,  and  must  in  old  days 
— when  painted  and  gilded — have  been  a  gaudy 
spot;  to-day  in  this  ghastly  light,  with  its  paintless 
wood  dingy  with  decay,  and  its  fragmentary  capi- 
tals dangling  about  tottering  columns,  between 
which  crows  flap  noisily  over  omnipresent  dirt, 
— it  presents  an  image  of  "dust  and  ashes,"  that 
leads  to  trite  but  ever-poignant  thoughts  of  how 
all  things  pass 

Wandering  through  the  bazars,  sometimes  I 
chance  upon  curious  sights.  Beside  a  gateway 
a  man  is  seated,  holding  a  falcon  on  his  gloved 
hand — like  some  picture  of  a  mediaeval  falconer 
come  to  life.  The  large  slender  bird,  speckled 
with  olive-brown  and  black,  has  a  cruel  look  as 
it  sits  very  quietly  on  the  falconer's  fist,  slowly 
turning  its  curved  beak  and  small  head,  without 
a  tremor  of  the  round  wide-open  eyes  in  which 
the  pupils  have  contracted  to  narrow  slits. 
Around  its  neck  is  a  silver  ornament  with  a  little 
bell  on  either  side,  and  on  its  legs  are  red  jesses 


52       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

fastening  it  to  its  master's  hand.  Man  and  bird 
are  a  striking  survival  of  customs  we  usually 
think  long  since  gone  by.  Through  another  portal 
not  far  away,  I  can  see  a  court  where  astrakhan 
is  being  sold ;  tiny  fleeces  are  lying  about  among  the 
traffickers,  and  one  poor  black  baby  lamb — still 
alive — is  trembling  on  its  ludicrously  long  and 
unsteady  legs;  a  man  in  Cossack  dress  passes  me 
by,  carrying  in  one  hand  a  pitiful  little  fleece  of 
shiny  black,  while  the  other  grasps  the  steamy 
bleeding  carcass  of  the  newly-flayed  lamb.  What 
a  brutally  devouring  and  malignly  indifferent 
thing  life  really  is,  when  on  rare  occasions  we 
dare  look  it  square  in  the  face ! 

Some  notability  or  rich  merchant  has  just  rid- 
den by,  splashing  mud  in  every  direction  as  he 
moves  down  the  sombre  passage,  where  ragged 
retainers,  running  before  and  after  him,  throw 
into  relief  the  dull  gleam  of  his  golden  robe.  Pic- 
turesque carts,  such  as  I  saw  at  Samarqand,  pass 
through  not  infrequently.  Their  build  is  peculiar ; 
— a  pair  of  enormous  wheels,  some  six  or  seven 
feet  across,  supports  heavy  shafts,  on  the  rear 
half  of  which  a  rude  platform  is  laid.  Near  either 
end  of  this,  a  sort  of  yoke  is  set  up,  the  front  one 
much  lower  than  the  rear  one;  these  hoops  are 
joined  together  by  a  frame-work  covered  with 
canvas,  forming — over  a  portion  of  the  platform 
— a  shelter  like  a  truncated  cone.  The  wheels 
and  shafts  are  unpainted ;  the  outside  of  the  hood 
is   also   without   decoration,    but   its   supporting 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  53 

yokes  and  ribs  are  all  gaily  bedizened.  The 
horses  have  harnesses  ornamented  with  small 
white  shells  and  beads  of  various  colours;  but  the 
most  conspicuous  part  is  the  rude  saddle,  on  which 
the  driver  often  sits  with  his  feet  resting  on  the 
shafts.  Altogether  these  carts  are  strange-looking 
affairs  as  they  jolt  through  bogs  and  over  hum- 
mocks,  shaking   up   the   turbaned   and   brightly 

dressed  occupants The  women  are  gowned 

in  shrouds  like  those  of  Samarqand,  but  here  many 
of  them  wear  vivid  green.  Surrounding  the  nar- 
row triangle  of  black  face- veil,  this  brilliant  colour 
is  very  startling.  Turkomen  are  quite  numerous 
— tall  fellows  with  long  hair  under  black  bonnets 
of  shaggy  sheep-skin  over  a  foot  high  and  very 
big  around.  They  wear  long  cloaks  of  some  woolly 
cloth  almost  like  felt,  of  a  beautiful  deep  black, 
hanging  straight  in  a  few  stiff  folds,  but  widening 
out  from  the  shoulders  to  nearly  double  the  width, 
where  at  the  bottom  they  stop  just  above  the 
heels.  Long  strands  of  soft  hair  cling  to  these 
stately  mantles,  which  are  further  enlivened  by 
a  strip  of  silver  braid  running  around  the  neck  and 
a  few  inches  down  the  front. 

As  the  day  is  raw  and  frosty,  almost  all  the 
shops  have  small  round  braziers  with  squat  legs, 
before  which  the  immobile  owners  sit  cross-legged, 
like  idols  in  their  gloomy  shrines,  warming  their 
hands  over  the  ashes  and  hot  embers.  Most  of 
the  men  carry  small  orange-coloured  gourds; 
these   they  continually  raise   to  their  mouths — 


54       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

after  throwing  back  their  heads — and  then  shake 
out  of  them  a  kind  of  powdered  chewing  tobacco, 
everywhere  exposed  for  sale  in  piles  of  vividly 
green  and  bilious  dust,  the  very  sight  of  which 
turns  a  European  stomach.  Gourds  of  all  kinds 
abound ;  in  fact  there  are  whole  streets  in  the  bazar 
where  nothing  else  is  sold.  They  vary  in  colour 
from  pale  yellow  to  deep  orange,  with  an  occasional 
black  one;  and  in  size,  range  from  tiny  tobacco- 
holders  to  large  ones  hollowed  out  and  fitted  with 
reeds  for  use  as  narghiles. 

A  funeral  is  now  passing;  just  a  litter  borne  on 
men's  shoulders,  with  high  sides  hung  with  «^or- 
geous  red  and  gold  brocade,  hiding  the  body  within. 
The  bearers  utter  a  series  of  cries  or  moans,  as 
they  move  along  swiftly  with  no  one  following; 
but  their  gaudy  burden,  swaying  to  right  and  left, 
or  up  and  down  with  the  inequalities  of  the  ground, 
suggests  anything  rather  than  death.  After  this 
Asian  funeral  has  passed  unheeded,  I  step  through 
a  portal  into  an  enclosure  filled  by  another  tank 
of  emerald  slime,  stagnating  under  the  boughs 
of  its  leafless  trees  among  scaled  and  crumbling 
walls.  At  one  side  booths  are  built,  where  men 
are  working,  and  a  tea-vendor  has  his  samovars 
ready  for  use.  A  man  is  seated  on  a  bench,  with 
a  pretty  bird  attached  to  his  hand  by  a  fine  wire 
about  its  neck;  it  flutters  and  then  flies,  only  to 
be  forced  to  re-alight  by  the  almost  invisible  bond 
which  binds  it  to  its  indifferent  captor.  Boys  and 
men  are  huddled  on  the  ground  around  crates  of 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  55 

poultry  exposed  for  sale;  one  of  them  is  actually 
filled  with  crows,  amongst  which  a  dying  bird  lies 
on  its  back  with  fast-glazing  eyes  and  fallen  wings 
spread  out.  A  dying  crow  and  a  fluttering  cap- 
tive, beside  stagnant  water  amid  the  decay  of  a 
once  imperial  city ;  what  bitter  symbols  of  all  life ! 
From  here  there  is  a  view  across  mud  roofs  to 
the  famous  minaret  once  used  for  execution,  and 
the  nearby  dome  of  the  Kabjan  Mosque.  The 
latter  still  retains  its  turquoise-coloiu-ed  tiling, 
and  is  at  present  decorated  by  five  storks'  nests 
perched  on  the  crown  and  slopes — great  black 
excrescences  that  give  the  beautiful  cupola  a 
ludicrous  air  of  neglect.  Slipping  and  struggling 
along  through  the  slimy  morass  of  streets,  I  finally 
leave  the  bazars  and  reach  the  little  square  in 
front  of  the  Kabjan  Mosque;  its  fagade  is  built 
on  the  usual  plan,  but  is  entirely  divested  of 
mosaic;  nothing  remains  but  rough  walls  of  pale 
umber,  above  which  the  blue  dome  shines  faintly, 
far  to  the  rear  across  the  court,  like  some  aban- 
doned jewel.  At  one  corner  of  the  shabby  square, 
but  entirely  detached  from  the  mosque,  the  great 
minaret,  from  whose  top  condemned  criminals 
were  until  recently  hurled  to  death,  rises  high  in 
the  air  against  a  slowly  moving  drapery  of  ashen 
clouds.  It  is  built  of  buff  brick,  tapering  sharply 
from  base  to  top,  and  is  ringed  with  wide  bands 
formed  by  diversified  patterns  in  which  the  bricks 
are  laid.  At  the  top  of  what  might  be  called  its 
shaft,  is  a  single  band  of  blue  tiles;  above  this 


56       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

there  is  an  overhanging  lantern,  pierced  by  narrow 
arches  and  crowned  by  a  series  of  corbels  spread- 
ing out  like  a  great  capital,  on  whose  centre  stands 
a  small  pyramid  now  adorned  by  a  stork's  nest. 
On  the  third  side  of  the  square,  is  a  wide  space 
raised  some  ten  feet  above  the  ground  to  form  a 
terrace  in  front  of  a  second  mosque.  In  this  and 
other  mosques  at  Bukhara,  the  court  is  not  entered 
directly  as  at  Samarqand.  It  is  surrounded  by 
a  corridor,  where  the  worshipper  is  obliged — on 
passing  the  portal — to  turn  sharply  to  right  or  left 
until  he  reaches  the  comer  arcades,  which  alone 
open  into  the  court.  This  particular  passage  is 
vaulted  with  a  curiously  complicated  system  of 
intersecting  surfaces,  built  of  brick  and  carr^'^ing 
very  flat  domes.  In  one  comer  there  is  a  window 
with  tracery,  which  still  retains  all  its  tiles;  gor- 
geous blues  with  deep  yellow  flowers,  shining  like 
rich  enamels. 

At  no  great  distance  is  another  small  and  untidy 
square,  where  two  dilapidated  mosques  face  one 
another — pale  sepia  walls  with  blue  and  green 
mosaics  peeling  off  in  pitiful  disarray.  One  of 
them  has  kept  undamaged  an  entire  panel  as 
beautifiil  as  jewel-work;  on  a  sapphire  groimd,  a 
pale  green  vase,  with  yellow  patterns,  holds  long- 
stemmed  flowers  of  pale  bluish  green  with  orange 
patches  outlined  in  white.  In  front  of  each 
mosque  the  ground  is  raised  and  paved  like  a  ter- 
race, leaving  a  broad  roadway  to  enter  the  bazars 
at  either  end  of  the  square.     Men  in  gaudy  gowns 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  57 

and  soiled  white  turbans  gather  about  me  when 
I  try  to  take  photographs,  deeply  interested  and 
altogether  mystified  by  the  operation  of  changing 
films.  One  fellow  begs  to  have  his  photograph 
taken,  but  withdraws  his  request  on  learning  that 
I  cannot  instantly  hand  him  the  finished  picture. 
Rows  of  diminutive  donkeys  stand  patiently  in 
front  of  the  terraces;  some  heavily  laden,  others 
for  the  moment  unburdened,  but  all  resigned  and 
listless,  with  great  furry  ears  slowly  moving  back 
and  forth  above  their  pathetic  heads.  Turbaned 
men  are  engaged  in  every  kind  of  occupation, 
some  in  the  roadway,  some  leaning  against  the 
terrace  walls,  some  walking  about  on  top  of  it, 
or  even  lying  down  at  full  length.  The  entrance 
to  the  bazar  yawns  like  the  mouth  of  a  gloomy 
tunnel;  above  the  wall  the  top  of  the  once- 
lethal  minaret  stands  out  among  domes  of  dun  or 
turquoise. 

February  17*^ 
The  almost  forgotten  sun  has  to-day  appeared, 
shining  brightly  in  a  cobalt  sky,  across  which  in 
lazy  masses  white  clouds  drift.  Things  are  no 
longer  "no  more  than  what  they  really  are," 
since  the  sun  has  cast  over  all  a  magic  quite  as 
potent  as  that  of  the  sorceress  who,  in  old  tales, 
transforms  beggars  into  princelings.  Reality  is 
to-day  what  it  was  yesterday,  but  appearances 
are  other.  Even  the  sloughs  of  mud  are  less  re- 
pulsive, while  the  walls  of  dried  clay  are  ambered 


58       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

with  light  and  diversified  by  shadows,  which  give 
relief  to  what  was  before  monotonous.  In  this 
morning  play  of  light  and  shade,  things  which 
yesterday  were  dead  and  dreary  spring  suddenly 
into  light.  Pulsing  shafts  of  sun  dart  through 
openings  in  bazar-roofs,  and  leap  from  object  to 
object  like  living  creatures.  The  very  shadows 
are  animate,  and  no  longer  mere  veils  of  gloom. 
The  costumes  which  yesterday  were  masses  of 
bright  colour,  contrasting  harshly  with  their 
drab  environment,  this  morning  seem  harmonised 
by  the  golden  ambience  into  which  all  things  melt. 
Yesterday  objects  were  all  on  a  single  plane;  this 
morning  in  the  chequering  of  shade  and  sunlight, 
they  have  acquired  relief  and  wealth  of  detail. 
Men  move  gaily  in  brightly-striped  costumes 
with  turbans  varying  in  size  and  degrees  of  white- 
ness; or  else  sit  before  their  shops,  with  oriental 
impassivity  and  placid  eyes,  gazing  fixedly  over 
stately  beards  often  white — like  idols  robed  in 
shining  silk.  Boys  dash  about,  and  occasionally 
a  rich  merchant  rides  down  the  bazar  on  a  decent 
horse,  followed  by  an  attendant.  Story-tellers 
stand  or  squat  at  crossways,  their  white  turbans 
either  gleaming  in  the  sun,  or  else  palely  luminous 
if  they  chance  to  stand  in  covered  places.  They 
recite  loudly,  hoarsely,  and  excitedly,  with  great 
wealth  of  gesture ;  from  time  to  time  one  or  two  men 
seated  across  the  street — apparently  followers  of 
the  recitant — intone  a  nasal  chant  in  loud  choruses. 
To-day  when  everything  has  acquired  a  certain 


A  Prayer  Portico  and  a  Hawz,  Bukhara 


A  Hawz  with  View  of  the  Kabjan  Mosque,  Bukhara 


Minaret  of  the  Kabjan  Mosque,  Bukhara 
This  tower  was  formerly  used  as  a  place 
of    execution    for    criminals,    who    were 
hurled  from  the  top 


An  Entrance  to  the  Bazars.  Bukhftrft 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  59 

picturesqueness ;  when  the  filth  and  misery  seem 
transmuted,  or  at  least  half-veiled,  by  the  chari- 
table sun  which  plays  just  now  on  Bukhara, — the 
city  produces  a  new  impression.  Even  the  green 
tanks  hide  their  foul  water  beneath  bright  reflec- 
tions; whilst  the  turquoise  dome  of  the  Kabjan 
Mosque,  with  its  deserted  storks' nests,  fairly  glitters 
in  the  sun.  Nevertheless,  to  become  really  curious, 
a  city  such  as  this  should  be  seen  in  warm  or 
— best  of  all — hot  weather.  Then  the  light  seems 
molten;  the  air  is  tremulous  with  waves  of  heat; 
the  earth  is  veiled  with  buff  and  gold,  while  colours 
flash  on  every  side;  everything  sordid  disappears, 
as  the  sun  melts  all  things  into  a  single  picture, 
glowing  like  splendid  enamels  fused  on  a  bright 

gold  plaque 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  little  train  carries  me 
from  Bukhara  down  the  branch  line  to  Kagan, 
where  I  board  the  so-called  express  that  is  to  take 
me  on  to  Askabad,  and  thence  by  carriages  over 
mountain  ranges  into  Persia.  The  heavy  train 
trails  its  broad  carriages  across  the  plain  as  night 
begins  to  gather.  It  has  fallen,  unbroken  by 
light  either  in  the  sky  or  across  the  plains,  whfen 
we  reach  the  'Amu  Darya — the  Oxus  of  antiquity. 
I  can  just  discern  an  expanse  of  dull  water,  bending 
suddenly  as  it  passes  under  the  bridge,  whose 
beams  and  trestles  cast  a  sable  tracery  across  its 
olive-black  surface.  Since  the  days  when,  a  boy 
at  school,  I  read  the  sonorous  verse  of  Sohrab 
and  Rustum,  I  have  dreamed  of  how: — 


6o       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

"The  sun  by  this  had  risen,  and  clear'd  the  fog 
From  the  broad  Oxus  and  the  glittering  sands." 

Here  I  am,  crossing  the  river  that  is  musical  with 
memories  of  Arnold's  stately  poem,  the  very  river 
that  perhaps  halted  Alexander  of  Macedon  with 
all  his  hosts;  yes,  crossing  it — but  in  a  railway 
carriage  on  a  modern  bridge!  How  prosaic  it  all 
is!  nothing  but  night,  dull  water,  and  a  Russian 
train  slowly  rolling  across  an  iron  bridge. 


February  i8^^ 
Last  night  the  soldier — who  in  Turkestan  ac- 
companies the  guard,  and  makes  frequent  trips 
through  the  corridors  on  his  own  account — put 
his  head  into  my  carriage  and  began  to  talk  volubly. 
This  had  happened  several  times  since  Moscow; 
but  hitherto,  when  I  had  remarked  that  I  knew  no 
Russian,  and  paid  no  further  attention,  they  had 
withdrawn  in  despair.  This  time  my  tactics  were 
ineffectual,  and  the  soldier  showed  no  signs  of 
departing ;  so  I  decided  that  I  must  discover  what 
he*  wished.  Remembering  that  the  Russian- 
speaking  Frenchman,  who  had  travelled  with  me 
as  far  as  Tashkent,  had  overtaken  me  at  Bukhara, 
and  was  now  in  one  of  the  forward  carriages;  I 
started  out  to  find  him,  my  military  escort  helping 
me  politely  across  the  open  platform  as  though  I 
were  a  lady  or  an  old  man.  When  I  finally  dis- 
covered my  Frenchman,  and  he  enquired  what  the 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  6i 

soldier  wished,  it  appeared  that  the  knickerbockers 
I  chanced  to  be  wearing,  had  made  him  conclude 
I  must  be  an  English  officer.  He  was  therefore 
much  perturbed,  and  anxious  to  know  by  what 
right  and  for  what  purpose  I  was  travelling  in 
Turkestan.  When  he  learned  that  I  was  an 
American  duly  authorised  by  Imperial  Govern- 
ment, he  made  one  of  the  deep  Russian  obeisances 
that  bow  the  spine  in  two,  and  then  retired.  As 
the  Russians  have  no  great  fortresses  in  these 
parts,  and  there  is  nothing  in  all  Turkestan  about 
which  any  nation  cannot  readily  inform  itself; 
the  elaborate  precautions  with  which  their 
Government  hedges  the  country — not  to  mention 
its  panicky  attitude  towards  subjects  of  its  ally, 
England — seem  as  childish  as  they  are  irritating. 

It  was  night  when  we  passed  through  the  ruins 
of  Merv,  so  I  did  not  have  even  a  fleeting  glimpse 
of  one  of  the  most  ancient  cities  of  the  world ;  that 
quondam  glory  of  the  East,  whose  resistance  em- 
bittered Chingiz  Khan  so  deeply  as  to  provoke 
order  to  raze  the  entire  city  and  slaughter — ac- 
cording to  Arab  chroniclers — a  million  of  men.  I 
had  wished  to  see  it,  but  the  paucity  of  its  ruins 
and  the  impossible  nature  of  inns  and  train-service, 
as  well  as  inclement  weather,  caused  me  to  re- 
nounce my  project.  I  now  half  regret  my  decision 
since,  on  waking,  the  sun  shines  brightly  and  the 
air  is  soft  and  warm. 

We  are  now  skirting  the  Russo-Persian  frontier, 
marked  by  small  hillocks  and  at  times  a  trench — 


62       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

so  close  to  noble  mountains,  it  seems  almost 
possible  to  touch  them.  The  plain  is  dull  brown 
— tinged  with  madder  where  it  nears  the  foot-hills, 
either  marbled  with  olive  green  where  sickly  grass 
grows  like  immense  lichens,  or  spotted  with  buff 
where  the  earth  is  overturned.  The  first  line  of 
mountains  is  considerably  lower  than  those  behind ; 
it  has  roimd  finger-like  spurs  that  seem  to  grasp 
the  plain  (just  as  roots  of  giant  trees  seize  the 
earth)  and  swelling  summits,  where  the  snow 
glitters  in  the  sun  without  a  break, — a  white 
mantle,  faintly  glazed  with  lavender  melting  into 
blue-grey  shadows.  Behind  these  there  rises  a 
loftier  range  of  steep  and  jagged  peaks,  which 
primaeval  force  has  graven  and  rived.  Their  bare 
pinnacles,  piercing  the  range  with  needle-fine 
points,  are  very  grand.  When  from  time  to  time 
a  level  ridge  interrupts  the  serrated  line,  snow 
draws  bands  of  white  across  the  sky ;  but,  in  general, 
on  these  higher  mountains  snow  only  remains  in 
hollows  and  on  gentler  slopes.  iVs  a  whole,  the 
range  is  silver-grey  melting  into  paler  tones  of 
mauve;  but  it  is  flecked  with  blue- white  patches 
of  snow,  and  broken  by  multiform  masses  of  pale 
grey  shadow  warming  to  lavender — wherever  a 
hollow  sinks  or  some  shoulder  begins  to  mount. 
Formless  clouds — milky  white  with  opal  tints — 
overhang  the  summits,  and  fade  gradually  into 
a  colourless  sky,  slowly  turning  clear  blue  as  it 
ascends  toward  the  zenith. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  train,  the  plain  stretches 


TEC  -  ART  STUDIOS,  Inc. 

MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  63 

away  to  the  horizon  apparently  far  distant — an 
endless  level  of  dull  siena,  faintly  tinged  with  rose- 
purple  where  it  begins  to  lose  itself  in  the  sky. 
Not  a  tree  or  shrub,  not  even  a  bush,  is  in  sight. 
At  long  intervals  we  pass  villages,  with  gateways 
of  sun-dried  clay  and  clay  walls,  above  which  a 
few  bare  trees  and  the  roofs  of  clay  houses  also 
show.  Camels,  sheep,  and  sometimes  small  horses 
crop  the  umber  desert.  For  one  moment,  a  line  of 
pale  blue  water  shimmers  in  the  distance — prob- 
ably a  mirage.  At  the  station  of  Anan  the  ruins 
of  an  abandoned  city  lie  a  few  hundred  yards 
away;  mud  walls,  mud  houses,  an  endless  number 
of  small  round  towers  of  dried  mud — dotted  about 
like  big  pepper-pots — with  the  ruined  portal  of  a 
mosque,  on  a  high  terrace,  looming  over  every'- 
thing.  Brown  walls,  brown  towers,  brown  roofs, 
form  a  sepia  monochrome,  whose  lines  and  shat- 
tered masses  stand  out  picturesquely  against 
the  whiteness  of  the  mountains. 

At  the  railway-stations  the  Sarths  have  disap- 
peared, their  places  being  taken  by  a  splendid  set 
of  tall  slim  Turkomen.  Some  are  dressed  like 
those  at  Bukhara,  but  a  number  have  robes  of 
pure  red  with  fine  stripes  of  black.  All  of  them 
are  wearing  those  enormous  sheep-skin  bonnets 
that  seem  to  be  a  Turkoman's  distinctive  mark. 
Most  of  these  are  black,  but  some  a  reddish  brown 
which  makes  the  owner  look  as  though  he  had  an 
enormous  shock  of  ruddy  hair  and  no  hat ;  a  very 
few  are  white.     One  man  is  conspicuous  by  reason 


64       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

of  his  red  and  black  stockings,  and  his  mediaeval- 
looking  clogs  with  high  heels  and  thick  wooden 
soles  laced  over  the  foot  with  leather  thongs. 

It  is  nearly  two  o'clock  when  we  reach  Askabad. 
The  train  has  scarcely  arrived,  when  a  soldier — • 
despatch  in  hand — rushes  up  to  my  French  and 
Spanish  acquaintances,  to  enquire  if  they  are  the 
persons  mentioned  in  his  telegram  as  travelling 
to  the  railway  terminus  at  Krasnovodsk  on  the 
Caspian.  For  some  reason,  there  are  no  enquiries 
about  me  this  time.  After  a  little  I  manage  to 
find  the  Persian  guide,  Aghajan,  who  has  been 
sent  from  Tihran  to  meet  me.  He  appears  to 
be  intelligent  and  fairly  active.  To  enquiries  con- 
cerning his  origin,  he  replies  that  he  is  by  birth  a 
Jew,  but  hastens  to  add  that  he  has  been  to  the 
mission-school,  and  is  now  a  Christian.  It  would 
be  interesting  to  know  in  what  his  Christianity 

consists The  town  proves  to  be  entirely 

modem  and  fairly  clean,  with  broad  streets  but 
no  objects  of  interest.  It  is,  however,  less  sordid 
than  the  generality  of  such  places,  and  is  rendered 
almost  beautiful  by  the  cold  purity  of  a  blue- 
white  mountain  range,  so  near  the  city  it  seems 
peering  into  it.  The  hotel  is — for  Turkestan — 
quite  a  cleanly  and  palatial  place. 

Shortly  after  arriving,  Aghajan  takes  me  to  see 
the  Persian  Consul,  whose  visa  on  passports  is  re- 
quired when  entering  Persia.  He  proves  pleas- 
ant, civil,  and  quite  the  most  hospitable  person 
that  I  have  met  in  some  time.     Coffee  is  served 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  65 

while  my  passport  is  being  stamped,  and  I  have 
scarcely  reached  the  hotel,  when  he  calls  to  leave 
a  card  inviting  me  to  tea.  His  wife  and  sister-in- 
law  are  Albanians,  and  at  tea  we  all  converse  in 
French.  The  Consul's  polite  manner  scarcely 
conceals  his  dislike  of  Russia  and  the  vexatious 
policy  here  employed.  After  tea  is  over,  and  a 
cordial  invitation  to  dinner  the  next  day  has  been 
extended  to  me,  I  start  out  to  arrange  for  trans- 
port to  Mashhad.  The  Persian  carriage-pro- 
prietor is  an  emaciated  old  robber  with  a  sallow 
birdlike  face,  who  wears  a  long  coat  of  lemon- 
coloured  skin  flung  across  his  shoulders.  After  a 
great  deal  of  haggling,  I  strike  a  bargain  for  two 
carriages — if  they  can  be  called  such;  a  battered 
landau^  in  the  last  stages  of  decay,  is  to  carry 
Said,  Aghajan,  and  myself,  over  the  mountains, 
I  hope  safely;  all  that  is  left  of  a  brougham,  with 
a  faded  lining  of  red  and  yellow  stripes,  is  to  trans- 
port my  luggage.  We  are  to  travel  post,  that  is 
to  say  with  relays  of  horses  maintained  by  Gov- 
ernment— in  Persia  a  polite  fiction.  However,  I 
cannot  start  until  day  after  to-morrow,  as  the 
post  leaves  to-morrow  and  takes  all  the  horses. 
The  price  agreed  on  is  very  high,  and  it  is  more 
than  probable  that  I  am  being  roundly  robbed, 
despite  the  governmental  tariff  regulating  the  rates, 
which  I  am  shown.  Be  this  as  it  may,  the  pro- 
prietor in  making  change,  tries  to  cheat  me  out 
of  a  twenty-rouble  note — for  of  course  I  am  obliged 
to  pay  in  advance.  There  is  no  doubt  that  my 
5 


66       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

vigilance  will  have  to  be  unceasing,  if  I  do  not 
wish  to  be  enmeshed  by  the  proverbial  dishonesty 
of  Persia. 

After  this  I  have  to  visit  the  money-changer, 
in  order  to  exchange  a  hundred  Russian  roubles 
for  Persian  coin.  Both  gold  and  note  are  practi- 
cally unknown  in  Persia ;  in  the  larger  cities  the 
different  branches  of  the  Imperial  Bank  of  Persia 
— an  institution  under  English  control — issues 
bank-notes,  which  are  good  only  in  the  place  of 
issue.  Here  in  Askabad,  the  only  currency  is 
silver  in  two  qirdn  pieces,  worth  about  one  franc 
of  French  money,  but  double  the  size  of  that  coin. 
After  Aghajan  has  sorted  them  out  with  great 
vigour,  rejecting  the  pierced  ones  and  biting 
others  to  make  sure  they  are  not  lead ;  two  hundred 
and  eighty-six  of  these  pieces  are  tied  up  in  a  little 
bag  of  burlap  and  carted  off,  weighing  heaven 
knows  how  much.  It  makes  one  feel  like  a 
paymaster-general  starting  on  his  rounds. 


February  19*.^ 
Last  night  I  was  aroused  by  a  tremendous  noise 
of  drum  and  fife,  playing  in  oriental  time.  Al- 
though the  rhythm  was  eastern,  it  proved  to  be 
a  wedding-party  dressed  in  European  clothes.  A 
number  of  men,  carrying  lighted  candles,  preceded 
the  bride  wearing  a  white  gown  and  veil;  she 
walked  between  a  man  (presumably  the  groom) 
attired  in  a  full  dress-suit  and  an  overcoat  thrown 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  67 

over  his  shoulders,  and  a  youth  with  a  student 
cap.  Women  with  white  scarfs  thrown  over 
their  heads  completed  the  group.  Every  few 
minutes  all  of  them  stopped  to  shout  and  form  a 
circle  whilst  two  men  danced  a  sort  of  cancan, 
which  appeared  to  bore  the  bride  and  groom  hugely ; 
then  they  advanced  a  little  further  and  repeated 
this  same  procedure — the  drum  beating  away  and 
the  oriental  flute  burbling  furiously  all  the  while. 
Here  at  Askabad  the  police  authorities  place 
such  difficulty  in  the  path  of  foreigners,  as  seem 
vexatious  even  to  those  inured  to  the  ways  of 
Russian  officialdom.  When  Aghajan  reported 
himself  on  arriving,  he  was  cheerfully  informed 
that,  should  the  traveller  for  whom  he  expected 
to  act  as  guide,  prove  to  be  English, — he  and  his 
master  would  on  no  account  be  permitted  to  cross 
into  Persia. — In  these  parts  it  is  rather  humorous 
to  recall  the  fact  that  both  Russia  and  Great 
Britain  belong  to  the  Triple  Entente. — As  soon 
as  I  arrived,  I  sent  my  passports  to  the  authorities, 
requesting  that  they  might  be  returned  at  once 
with  the  visa  without  which  no  one  can  leave 
Russia.  This  realm  of  the  Tsar  resembles  a 
prison,  in  so  much  as  it  can  neither  be  entered  nor 
left  without  due  process  of  law.  When  I  returned 
to  the  hotel  about  seven  o'clock  last  night,  I  found 
an  officer  waiting  to  see  me  about  my  passports, 
— police  duty  being  in  military  hands  here  in 
Turkestan.  He  was  a  stocky  individual,  with  a 
comfortable  rotundity  tightly  buttoned  up  inside 


68       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

a  military  great-coat.  As  there  was  no  other 
place  in  which  to  receive  this  troublesome  but 
potent  individual,  I  had  to  see  him  in  my  bedroom. 
Here,  in  addition  to  the  passports  he  already  held, 
I  produced  my  letter  from  the  Russian  Ambassa- 
dor and  a  copy  of  the  verbal  (for  they  refuse  to 
give  a  written)  communication  made  by  Imperial 
Government  to  the  Embassy  at  Petersburg,  grant- 
ing me  permission  to  visit  specified  places  in  speci- 
fied order — all  liberty  of  movement  being  denied 
foreigners  so  annoying  as  to  wish  to  travel  through 
Turkestan.  Since  my  official  visitor  was  unable 
to  speak  anything  but  his  own  tongue,  of  which 
I  know  nothing,  Aghajan  had  to  use  his  limited 
stock  of  Russian  and  interpret  for  me ;  whereupon 
a  veritable  inquisition  took  place.  I  was  asked: 
where  I  came  from;  why  I  wished  to  enter  Persia; 
who  was  my  employer;  if  I  had  none,  what  was 
I  doing  in  Turkestan;  did  I  own  a  house  in  my 
native  city ;  what  was  my  income,  and  how  acquired ; 
and  many  other  idle  and  vexatious  questions. 
As  my  fate  lay  in  the  hands  of  this  rotund  official 
spider,  it  was  necessary  to  be  extremely  polite; 
yet  I  thought  it  wise  that  my  manner  should,  at 
the  same  time,  betray  resentment  of  the  more 
impertinent  of  his  questions.  After  ending  my 
interrogatory,  he  gathered  up  all  my  papers,  de- 
clared he  must  take  them  to  headquarters  for 
inspection,  and  marched  off — smoking  one  of  my 
cigarettes.  A  little  later,  a  telephone  message 
arrived,  to  the  effopt  that  my  papers  would  be 


MOSCOW  TO  ASKABAD  69 

kept  overnight,  and  I  must  call  for  them  in  person 
next  morning.  To  stir  without  passports  pro- 
perly vised  would  be  impossible,  as,  even  if  I 
managed  to  leave  the  city,  I  should  inevitably  be 
detained  at  the  frontier.  These  fussy  formalities, 
and  a  consciousness  of  how  helpless  one  is  in  the 
hands  of  these  autocratic  persons,  aroused  very 
unpleasant  sensations.  The  possibility  of  being 
obliged  to  proceed  to  Krasnovodsk  on  the  Caspian, 
or  even  to  return  to  Moscow,  was  not  pleasant 
to  consider.  Fortunately  the  authorities  tele- 
phoned this  morning,  to  say  that  I  need  not  come 
to  headquarters  myself,  and  handed  over  my 
passports  duly  vis6d  to  Aghajan.  However,  I 
still  suspect  that  without  the  Russian  Ambassa- 
dor's letter  of  recommendation,  I  might  have  been 
refused  permission  to  enter  Persia;  at  any  rate, 
I  know  that  I  shall  be  delighted,  when  once  I 
have  crossed  the  frontier  out  of  reach  of  further 
formalities. 

My  official  difficulties  being  now  at  an  end,  I 
feel  free  to  make  a  few  necessary  purchases. 
Aghajan  tells  me  that  in  all  the  shops  they  are 
astonished  to  hear  me  speak  a  language  not  Rus- 
sian, and  immediately  enquire  who  I  am,  where  I 
come  from,  and  what  language  I  am  using.  At  a 
half  after  two,  I  arrive  at  the  house  of  the  hos- 
pitable Persian  Consul,  but  it  is  nearly  three  o'clock 
when  we  sit  down  to  a  long  and  excellent  dinner. 
The  meal  is  scarcely  ended,  when  tea  and  sweets 
are  served.     Wherever  the  Consul  goes,  he  is  fol- 


70       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

lowed  by  a  very  smart  Persian  Cossack,  wearing 
a  grey  astrakhan  bonnet  and  a  great-coat  cut  like 
that  of  the  Russian  Cossacks,  but  in  colour  a 
beautiful  ruby  red,  with  a  white  scarf  draped 
between  the  shoulders.  Before  I  leave,  the  Consul 
is  kind  enough  to  give  me  a  letter  to  a  friend,  one 
of  the  Persian  generals  at  Mashhad.  I  have  never 
been  received  v/ith  greater  courtesy,  and  certainly 
have  never  had  such  hospitality  extended  to  me 
by  a  stranger  who  knew  nothing  about  me. 


II 

ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD 


71 


II 

ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD 

February  20*.^ 
An  overcast  and  threatening  day.  I  wished 
to  start  at  eight  o'clock;  but  Persians  having  no 
idea  of  punctuaHty,  the  carriages  are  over  an 
hour  late  in  arriving.  Then  there  is  further 
delay  in  loading  the  luggage,  and  stowing  parts 
of  my  kit  in  convenient  places.  Since  Persian 
drivers  do  not  inspire  confidence,  I  order  the 
dilapidated  brougham,  filled  with  luggage,  to  lead 
the  way,  so  it  cannot  get  out  of-  sight.  Finally 
the  two  wrecks,  each  with  four  horses  harnessed 
abreast,  succeed  in  starting.  In  such  ramshackle 
old  conveyances,  driven  by  such  strange  and  shabby 
creatures,  I  have  never  before  travelled;  while 
the  dirty  white  Turkoman's  bonnet  worn  by  my 
driver  only  makes  the  procession  more  ludicrous. 
On  leaving  Askabad,  the  road  crosses  a  barren 
plain,  beyond  which  the  mountains  are  completely 
hidden  in  mist — a  very  dreary  prospect  indeed; 
then  it  begins  to  ascend  the  lower  slopes  in  long 
loops,  under  a  heavy  drizzle  that  soon  turns  to 
fine  rain.     The  only  living  things  in    sight  are 

73 


74       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

flocks  of  sheep  grazing  wearily.  Occasionally  we 
pass  a  rude  wagon  painted  red,  with  sloping  sides 
and  a  rounded  canvas  hood — rather  like  the 
"prairie  schooners,"  which  in  earliest  days  were 
used  to  cross  our  plains  in  search  of  the  new  found 
gold.  Sometimes  we  cross  convoys  of  mules 
laden  with  merchandise;  at  the  first  place  where 
we  halt  to  breathe  our  sorry  horses,  there  is  a 
caravan  of  some  thirty  camels,  still  loaded  but 
kneeling  and  eating  slowly,  while  their  drivers  sit 
around  the  fire.  When  we  have  passed  a  man 
flaying  a  scarcely  dead  camel  beside  the  road,  we 
meet  a  train  of  wagons  carrying  cotton  from  Mash- 
had,  with  drivers  in  shaggy  bonnets,  and  Russian 
soldiers  at  front  and  rear  accompanying  them  from 
the  frontier  to  collect  customs-duties  at  Askabad. 
At  noon  we  halt  at  a  filthy  caravanserai  to 
change  horses  and  permit  me  to  lunch.  Dingy 
white  buildings  of  one  storey  surround  a  courtyard 
full  of  mud  and  manure ;  wrapped  up  in  my  over- 
coat, I  am  sitting  in  a  small  room — bare  and 
dirty — with  two  stoves  that  cannot  be  lighted. 
Outside,  rain  falls  intermittently  and  grey  mist 
hangs  a  pall  over  everything.  Sheep  and  a  few 
lambs,  some  newly  born,  stand  about  the  slimy 
court.  A  camel  is  fastened  under  a  shed,  solemnly 
chewing  with  flabby  lips,  while  moving  his  great 
head  slowly  from  side  to  side,  with  an  air  of  dis- 
dain words  cannot  render.  He  is  the  image  of  a 
contented  indifference,  no  power  could  perturb. 
From  time  to  time  cocks  crow  or  a  hen  clucks 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  75 

loudly;  but  the  lamentable  crying  of  sheep  is  un- 
interrupted. Despite  these  noises,  I  am  vaguely 
conscious  of  that  hush  which  always  falls  when 
mist  muffles  the  air  and  makes  all  sounds  remote 
and  ominous.  A  dog  pads  about  the  muddy  en- 
closure and  chickens  parade  the  shed-roofs,  over 
which  little  birds  or  a  chance  magpie  sometimes 
flutter.  The  hills  rise  sheer,  directly  behind  the 
caravanserai — dirty  brown  with  scaly  patches 
of  green.  A  few  horses  lazily  crop  a  ridge,  while 
the  flock  of  sheep  that  just  now  filled  the  court- 
yard, slowly  undulates  up  the  hillside — most  of 
them  dust-coloured,  but  some  black,  with  here 
and  there  one  rusty  brown.  Herdsmen  in  huge 
bonnets  lean  on  their  staves,  conversing.  The 
rain  has  ceased,  but — a  few  hundred  yards  away — 
mist  has  drawn  a  veil  across  the  valley,  hiding  all 
the  hills  except  a  few  pallid  flakes  of  snow  seen 
through  the  fringe  of  vapour.  Desolation  and 
melancholy  reign  unalleviated. 

When  we  start  with  fresh  horses,  the  road  be- 
gins to  rise  more  steeply,  for  the  first  time  winding 
upward  in  great  loops.  Nothing  is  visible  but 
brown  and  desolate  hills  with  snow  in  every  de- 
pression, and  grey  mist  wavering  below  the  in- 
visible summits.  A  few  tiny  shrubs — entirely 
bare — form  the  only  vegetation,  each  coated 
with  ice  until  it  stands  out  in  transparent  silver. 
Gradually  the  snow  grows  deeper  and  wider-spread, 
until  earth  strewn  with  heaps  of  snow,  is  replaced 
by  snow  broken  by  patches  of  earth.     In  some 


76       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

places  a  bank,  running  with  liquid  mud  and  rills  of 
water,  overhangs  the  road-bed.  Bending  over  these 
banks,  or  clinging  to  steep  hillsides,  or  piercing 
level  fields  of  snow,  large  bushes  begin  to  show 
above  the  clumps  of  dwarfed  shrub.  They  too 
are  leafless  and  sheathed  in  pearly  ice,  their 
twisted  crystal  branches  looking  so  fantastic, 
they  seem  the  work  of  silversmiths  rather  than 
of  nature.  This  ice-decked  shrubbery  is  the  one 
thing  which  lends  a  touch  of  grace  to  so  morose  an 
ascent. 

When  sitting  in  the  carriage  grows  wearisome, 
I  start  to  tramp  up  the  roadway,  filled  with  orange 
mud  trickling  with  water,  and  banked  by  piles  of 
snow  on  either  side.  Suddenly  a  distant  tinkling 
— like  that  of  Alpine  cow-bells — floats  through 
the  greyness,  drawing  steadily  nearer,  until  a 
camel's  snaky  head  emerges  from  the  mist,  as 
though  through  a  curtain,  followed  by  another 
and  still  other  camels.  It  is  a  caravan  bringing 
cotton  from  Sabzawar  to  Askabad.  The  huge 
ungainly  beasts  march  by  with  a  slow  sure  swing; 
their  shaggy  eyebrows,  their  snouts,  and  the 
long  hair  hanging  from  their  arched  necks,  hoary 
with  particles  of  congealed  moisture — glittering 
feebly  like  powdered  pearl.  They  are  laden  with 
a  bale  of  cotton  placed  on  each  side  of  the  rude 
pack-saddles.  The  knotted  ends  of  their  halter 
ropes  stand  up,  sparkling  with  frost  like  jewelled 
tassels,  between  their  dark  indifferent  eyes,  out 
of  which  they  peer  with  a  near-sighted  squint,  as 


'ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  77 

their  incredible  heads  swing  slowly  from  side  to 
side.  A  tinkling  bell,  in  shape  and  tone  like  Swiss 
cow-bells,  is  attached  to  the  halter  on  each  side  of 
the  head,  whilst  a  third  is  hung  about  the  neck. 
The  dun-coloured  camels  pad  past  me,  fastened 
together  by  ropes  in  groups  of  from  five  to  ten. 
Each  group  is  escorted  by  a  ragged  driver,  and 
has  a  huge  bell — a  foot  or  more  high — fastened 
to  the  leader's  saddle,  where,  above  the  tinkling 
rhythm  of  halter  bells,  it  booms  and  clangs.  To 
caravans  I  have  grown  accustomed  in  Barbary, 
but  there  they  are  soundless;  so  this  is  the  first 
time  I  have  ever  heard  that  music  of  the  camel 
bells,  which  so  deeply  impressed  the  imagination 
of  Sir  Richard  Burton. 

As  we  climb  through  mist  and  chill,  group  after 
group  passes  slowly  by,  with  deliberate  tread  and 
a  strange  craning  to  right  and  left  of  their  long 
curved  necks,  on  which  the  head  seems  to  sway 
like  that  of  a  monstrous  serpent.  Suddenly 
above  the  jangle  of  the  caravan  beside  and  below 
us,  I  catch  the  faint  tinkling  of  more  distant  bells; 
looking  upward  I  can  just  perceive  a  ghostly  line 
of  camels  moving  vaguely  through  the  mist  on  a 
loop  in  the  road  far  above.  For  over  half  an 
hour  they  file  past,  accompanied  by  miserable 
drivers;  their  great  bales  rocking  slowly,  with 
here  and  there  a  tuft  of  white  cotton  bursting 
through  the  canvas.  A  more  fantastic  sight 
than  this  endless  procession  of  over  three  hundred 
camels,  linked  in  groups,  slowly  padding  down 


78       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  mountain  through  snow  and  vapour,  to  the 
booming  of  brazen  bells,  would  be  difficult  to 
conceive.  It  seems  a  version,  curiously  trans- 
posed to  the  Orient,  of  Goethe's: — 

"Kennst  du  den  Berg  und  seinen  Wolkensteg? 
Das  Maul  tier  suchtimNebelseinenWeg:  .  .  . 
Kennst  du  ihn  wohl? — Dahin!     Dahin 
Geht  unser  Weg!" 

Gradually  the  caravan  draws  to  an  end,  passing 
indifferently  by  the  body  of  a  brother  camel  who 
died  in  his  tracks ;  until  the  entire  train  disappears 
in  the  mist,  with  a  Russian  soldier  bringing  up 
the  rear.  Then  the  sound  of  bells  grows  ever 
fainter,  fading  to  an  etherial  echo  that  itself 
finally  dies.  After  that,  the  only  soimds  are  of 
wheels  crunching  through  the  snow,  or  of  my 
drivers  as  they  call  or  whistle  to  encourage  their 
struggling  horses;  even  these  noises  are  deadened 
by  the  fog,  which — only  a  few  feet  away — encloses 
us  with  wavering  veils  seemingly  drawn  to  hide 
a  world  of  mystery. 

By  mid-afternoon,  we  have  reached  an  altitude 
of  some  four  thousand  feet  above  Askabad.  The 
mist  now  begins  to  lift,  revealing  hills  draped 
with  snow.  Overhead  a  bright  wanness  appears, 
where  the  sim  struggles  to  pierce  the  fog  but  only 
turns  the  vapour  from  grey  to  shining  white.  For 
one  second,  a  faint  line  of  blue  appears  through  a 
rift  in  the  drifting  mist.  At  a  little  after  four,  we 
reach  the  Russian  frontier — a  series  of  enclosures 


fJlWS?, 


A  Group  of  Bukhariats 


Turksmen  at  a  Station  near  Askabad 

(This  photograph  was  taken  while  hiding  behind  the  door  of  the  railway  carriage,  as  the  use  of 

a  camera  is  strictly  forbidden  in  Turkestan) 


BSjgiran  at  Sunrise 


A  Persian  Chai  Khdna,  or  Tea-House,  Askabid  to  Masshad 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  79 

between  walls  of  clay,  with  a  few  low  whitewashed 
houses.  Soldiers  are  standing  about  with  long 
iron  rods,  used  to  prod  carts  and  bales  in  search 
of  contraband;  finally  the  officials  come  out  and 
take  my  passports  to  be  inspected.  My  drivers 
go  off  for  tea,  and  Aghajan  to  buy  meat  for  to- 
night's meal,  while  I  remain  watching  the  dreary 
road.  Several  carriages  pass  by,  filled  with  Per- 
sians and  veiled  women,  all  of  whom  peer  at  me 
even  more  curiously  than  I  at  them.  At  last  my 
papers  are  returned  and  we  are  free  to  start.  It  is 
really  a  great  relief  to  have  crossed  the  frontier 
and  know  that,  whatever  trials  I  may  encounter 
in  Persia,  at  least  I  shall  no  longer  be  harrassed 
by  the  mediaeval  formalities  of  ojEficial  Russia. 

The  ascent  becomes  more  arduous,  as  the  road 
twists  upward  in  sharper  and  more  numerous 
loops,  with  clouds  now  hanging  high  enough  to 
leave  the  hills  visible  (except  for  occasional  rocky 
peaks)  all  white  with  snow.  When  we  have  al- 
most reached  five  thousand  feet  above  our  start- 
ing point,  the  road  makes  a  sudden  turn,  and  then 
plunges  down  with  precipitous  turns,  affording 
a  first  glimpse  of  Persia  spread  out  before  me  in 
a  panorama  of  the  most  unusual  beauty.  Rosy 
clouds  flaming  over  the  summits,  are  what  first 
catch  the  sight.  Close  at  hand,  the  snowy  ridge 
separating  us  from  the  northern  slope  just  ascended, 
still  catches  all  that  is  left  of  fog  and  clouds — long 
rows  of  blue-grey  vapour  fraying  out  at  the  upper 
edge,  imtil  they  drift  northward  across  the  ridge, 


8o       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

or  else  swirl  upward  in  tongues  that  melt  insensibly 
into  the  now  darkening  vaults  of  azure.  Below 
me,  the  valley  lies  free  from  fog  at  the  foot  of  hills 
greater  and  smaller,  rising  one  above  the  other 
in  rows  powdered  with  snow.  The  highest  range 
ends  in  peaks  of  serrated  rock,  in  colour  dun  glazed 
with  rose  and  flecked  with  multitudinous  small 
spots  of  black.  The  swelling  slopes  of  the  lower 
hills  are  seamed  by  ridges  and  gullies,  wrought 
by  rain  and  snow  descending  through  untold  eons. 
Although  without  vegetation,  they  are  not  of 
rock  but  of  loam,  yellow  turning  to  olive,  acrid  and 
metallic  as  though  coated  with  mineral  deposits. 
Snow  remains  in  depressions  or  on  more  sheltered 
summits,  its  enamelled  white  contrasting  with  the 
sharp  hues  of  the  earth.  In  a  hollow  at  the  centre 
of  this  vast  cirque  of  hills,  Bajglran  nestles — an 
assemblage  of  one-storeyed  houses  built  of  clay 
the  same  colour  as  the  hills.  Far  off  across  the 
valley,  snow-peaks  dominate  the  scene,  jagged 
point  towering  above  jagged  point.  Banks  of 
aquamarine  mist  have  been  caught  upon  their 
bases,  whence  detached  masses  float  upwards 
across  the  flanks,  until  they  crown  the  summits, 
which  the  rays  of  a  now  invisible  sun  flush  with 
pale  but  luminous  tones  of  scarlet  lake  tinged  with 
mauve  and  lavender.  Words  cannot  depict  these 
radiant  summits,  blazing  as  though  rosy  flame 
were  thrown  out  from  within;  nor  can  they  de- 
scribe how  the  entire  landscape  glitters,  while  the 
nearby  mist  curls  northward  and  is  lost  in  the 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  8i 

darkening  sky.  Casting  her  veils  aside,  Iran 
lies  before  me  glowing  in  the  rosy  hue  of  the 
sunset.^ 

The  carriages  plunge  rattling  down  the  hill  and 
around  corners,  until,  on  reaching  the  village  at 
dusk,  we  turn  into  the  muddy  court  of  a  caravan- 
serai. While  waiting  for  my  luggage  to  be  un- 
loaded (since  if  left  in  the  carriage  overnight, 
everything  would  be  stolen  before  dawn)  the  sky 
changes  gradually.  Near  the  horizon  it  grows 
violet,  very  deep  yet  so  luminous  the  eye  seems  to 
see  far  through  the  purpling  air,  the  which,  as  it 
mounts,  turns  sapphire  strewn  with  the  pale  gold 
points  of  early  stars.  Here  I  see  my  first  Persian 
costumes — very  commonplace  affairs  indeed.  A 
long  under-garment,  falling  well  below  the  knees, 
is  so  crossed  as  to  leave  a  V-shaped  space  descend- 
ing from  the  shirt-band  to  the  sash,  which  holds 
the  clothes  in  place.  Over  this  is  worn  an  equally 
long  coat,  tightly  fitted  to  the  bust,  but  with  full 
skirts  gathered  into  large  pleats  at  the  back.  The 
hats  are  high  and  shaped  like  melons,  made  either 
of  black  felt,  or  of  blue  cloth  with  silver  lines  and 
stars.  The  Persian's  distinctive  mark — two  long 
locks — curl  from  under  them  out  over  the  ears, 
the  rest  of  the  head  being  clean  shaved. 

While  standing  in  the  court,  I  suddenly  hear 
someone  address  me  in  French;  looking  round,  I 

'  I  record  my  impressions  as  they  occurred ;  but  candour  com- 
pells  the  admission  that  Persia  never  again  offered  me  anything 
one  half  so  lovely  as  this  first  illusion. 
6 


82       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

find  that  a  well-dressed  young  Persian  is  inviting 
me  to  wait  in  the  room  he  occupies.  When  he  dis- 
covers that  I  speak  English,  he  begins  to  use  it  eas- 
ily and  correctly.  He  is  a  native  of  Mashhad,  who 
has  lived  in  Shanghai  and  is  now,  after  a  visit  to 
his  parents,  on  his  way  back  to  Manchester!  He 
offers  me  sweets,  and  shows  extreme  courtesy  in 
all  his  ways.  Finally  Aghajan  finishes  carrying 
the  luggage  into  a  bare  but  tolerably  clean  room, 
rather  like  an  anchorite's  cell,  where  Said  pro- 
ceeds to  set  up  my  camp-bed,  and  adroitly  make 
things  as  comfortable  as  possible.  The  samovar 
purchased  at  Askabad  is  soon  lighted,  and  after  a 
time  Aghajan  brings  me  the  mutton  bought  at  the 
frontier,  decently  cooked  on  a  skewer.  A  hungry 
little  dog  shoves  the  door  open  with  his  nose,  and 
shares  my  dinner.  Later  my  young  Persian, 
who  with  his  travelling  companions  occupies  the 
next  room,  sends  to  enquire  if  he  may  pay  me  a 
visit.  He  apologizes  for  not  having  asked  me  to 
wait  in  his  room  as  soon  as  I  arrived,  excusing 
himself  on  the  ground  that  he  took  me  for  a  Rus- 
sian, and  of  course  desired  no  intercourse  with 
that  race.  He  tells  me  that  the  Russians  foment 
disturbances  in  Persia,  in  order  to  have  pretexts 
for  sending  troops  into  the  country;  and  dwells 
on  the  way  they  violated  the  sanctuary  and  killed 
Persians  at  Mashhad.  He  insists  that  all  his 
fellow-countrymen  hate  Russia.  His  manners 
are  remarkable,  and  his  courteous  proffer  of 
service  obviously  sincere.      When  he  leaves,  all 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  83 

is  still  outside;  through  the  broken  panes  of  my 
single  window,  I  see  a  hillside  like  a  wall  of  white, 
its  bare  crest  tracing  a  bar  across  the  chill  heavens 
a-glitter  with  stars. 

February  21?* 
At  six  o'clock,  before  the  sun  is  up,  it  is  bitterly 
cold  in  my  room — there  being  no  way  to  make  a 
fire.  The  light  increases  slowly,  until  the  sun 
brings  in  a  brilliant  day.  My  Persian  acquaint- 
ance is  on  hand  to  bid  me  good-bye,  and  regret 
that  he  has  not  been  able  to  do  more  for  me.  It  is 
nearly  eight  o'clock  when  we  drive  away  from 
Bajgiran,  crouched  among  its  yellow  hills  and 
towering  peaks.  On  reaching  the  valley-end, 
the  road  begins  winding  sharply  upward.  At 
first  the  hills  are  bare,  with  only  a  few  patches  of 
snow;  then  it  grows  deeper.  As  sitting  still  in 
the  carriage  is  chilly  work,  I  walk  briskly,  invigor- 
ated by  the  clear  cold  and  the  glittering  sunlight. 
The  hills  are  mantled  with  snow  and  dotted  with 
evergreens,  when,  on  reaching  a  height  of  some  six 
thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  we  begin  a  long  de- 
scent into  another  valley.  At  the  bottom  we  find 
a  camel  with  a  broken  leg  lying  beside  the  road; 
a  vermilion  stream  meanders  through  white  snow, 
where  the  driver — after  roping  its  head  back — is 
trying  to  cut  the  poor  brute's  throat  with  a  tiny 
pen-knife.  As  this  means  a  lingering  death  after 
hours  of  agony,  I  cannot  bear  to  leave  the  creature 
to  its  fate.     Through  Aghajan,  I  enquire  if  the 


84       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

driver  would  not  like  to  have  me  save  him  trouble 
by  shooting  the  camel;  my  proposition  being 
refused,  I  next  offer  a  rouble  (to  him  a  large  sum) 
if  he  permits  me  to  have  the  animal  put  out  of  its 
misery.  When  this  has  also  been  refused,  I  try 
to  discover  the  man's  motives.  I  am  told  that 
he  wants  to  use  the  hide  and  does  not  wish  it 
spoiled ;  whereupon  I  suggest  that  a  bullet-hole 
will  injure  it  far  less  than  hacking  it  with  a  pen- 
knife. Probably  the  real  reason  is  that  the  man 
is  a  Muslim  and  wishes  to  eat  the  flesh,  which  a 
true-believer  may  not  do,  unless  the  animal  has 
had  its  throat  cut.  This,  however,  has  been  done 
already,  and  I  am  determined  to  save  the  animal 
from  torture;  so  I  add  threats — which  I  could 
never  execute — to  offers  of  money,  and  finally 
secure  the  obstinate  Muhammadan's  consent 
to  a  foreigner's  folly.  Then  Said  takes  his  pistol, 
and  the  poor  writhing  head  falls  motionless  on 
the  snow. 

The  carriages  have  been  waiting  a  short  way  up 
the  road,  which  now  ascends  another  mountain. 
I  plunge  along  after  them,  through  deep  snow, 
until  weary.  At  the  top,  a  wonderful  view  is 
spread  before  us;  we  have  halted  on  a  long  ridge, 
down  whose  slopes  the  road  twists  in  giant  loops. 
Directly  opposite,  a  sheer  wall  of  mountains  rises, 
entirely  covered  with  snow,  except  where  a  few 
blackish  rocks  pierce  the  white,  or  a  row  of  ever- 
greens runs  along  the  crest.  Other  hills  heave  up 
their  dazzling  white  flanks,  strewn  with  round  and 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  85 

tapering  evergreens,  each  one  sharply  detached 
in  black  against  the  snow.  Far  away,  behind 
other  ranges,  a  majestic  chain  glittering  with 
snow,  towers  over  all — its  long  spurs  all  running 
downward  like  glaciers.  In  the  clear  air  they  seem 
near  at  hand,  yet  in  their  aloofness  most  remote. 
As  we  descend,  the  hills  we  pass  are  almost  bare 
of  snow — rocky  slopes  of  yellow  touched  with 
purple.  The  sky  is  pale  but  intensely  blue,  broken 
only  where  wisps  of  cloud  catch  on  the  mountain 
crests  and  then  drift  across,  melting  in  the  radiant 
air.  A  falcon  poises  in  the  vault  above  us,  before 
swooping  on  outspread  pinions;  saucy  magpies 
with  green  iridescence  on  black  wings,  flit  from 
rock  to  rock,  jauntily  wagging  their  very  long 
tails;  flocks  of  pigeons  wing  down  the  valley 
below.  A  lark -like  song  floats  upward  from  an 
unseen  bird. 

After  descending  some  seven  hundred  feet,  we 
reach  a  relay  about  noon;  just  a  stable  and  a 
chai  khdna  or  tea-house — hovels  built  of  dried 
clay.  The  four  comers  of  the  tea-house  floor  are 
occupied  by  terraces  of  dried  earth,  on  which  men 
can  squat  or  sleep,  leaving  only  a  cruciform  pass- 
age between  them.  I  can  see  a  rude  oven  in  the 
dim  light,  only  admitted  through  the  door.  Three 
shabby  Persians  are  gathered  around  a  samovar, 
drinking  tiny  glasses  of  tea,  and  also  busy  watch- 
ing me.  After  the  least  filthy  of  the  platforms  has 
been  swept  with  a  besom,  I  perch  on  the  edge, 
whilst   making   a  scanty   lunch   on   provisions   I 


86       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

fortunately  brought  with  me.  There  is  no  doubt 
that  in  Persia,  God  helps  him  who  helps  himself, 
since  no  one  else  will.  When  we  start,  the  road 
passes  through  a  narrow  gorge  of  tawny  rock, 
where  jagged  teeth  project  in  rows.  Then  the 
valley  expands,  and  the  road  begins  to  wind 
across  the  level,  between  low  pointed  hills,  some- 
times snow-tipped,  sometimes  almost  bare.  A 
stream  wanders  by,  often  choosing  the  roadway 
for  its  bed.  We  pass  a  few  mud  villages,  a  car- 
avanserai, and  some  fields  enclosed  by  mud 
walls.  There  are  rows  of  slender  poplars  here 
and  there,  with  greenish  white  boles  and  fine 
branches    all    pointing    upward,    as   though   the 

whole  tree  were  one  gigantic  bough The 

first  carriage  we  have  seen,  is  coming  towards 
us.  In  Persia  the  rule  of  the  road  requires 
travellers  to  change  post-horses  when  they  cross, 
taking  them  back  to  the  relay  where  they  be- 
long; so  we  halt  to  exchange  teams.  It  takes 
some  ten  minutes  to  adjust  the  assemblage  of 
string  and  rotten  leather  that  here  passes  as  har- 
ness ;  then  we  move  along  with  our  imderfed  and 
over-worked  animals. 

The  next  relay  is  at  Imam  Quli; — across  a  wide 
space,  half  road  and  half  river,  a  fortified  wall 
(like  all  Persia  built  of  sun-dried  clay)  surrounds 
tiers  of  clay  hovels,  climbing  an  ochre  hill  streaked 
with  snow.  There  are  no  windows  to  be  seen; 
only  a  few  houses  have  curious  rows  of  holes, 
which  make  them  look  like  dove-cotes.     A  round 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  87 

watch-tower  stands  at  the  highest  point  of  the 
village ;  two  others  are  visible  further  down.  The 
arches  and  fiat  dome  of  a  mosque  show  above  the 
roofs.  Everything  in  sight  being  built  with  dried 
clay,  only  their  form  distinguishes  the  buildings 
from  the  earth.  Cows  and  camels  stray  across 
the  road,  where  a  few  men  idle  in  yellow  leather 
overcoats  called — I  believe — pushtlns.  The  hum 
of  strident  voices  and  a  child's  occasional  shout, 

float  across  from  the  village It  is  three 

o'clock  when  we  leave,  and  the  sun  has  begun 
to  decline  visibly.  There  were  not  enough  horses, 
so  we  only  have  three  to  drag  the  carriage  full  of 
luggage.  The  road  leads  up  a  steep  hillside  with 
sharp  bends,  on  which  the  snow  often  lies  so  deep, 
the  poor  horses  can  scarcely  make  the  turn.  At 
last  we  reach  a  wide  plateau  buried  under  a  glit- 
tering expanse  of  snow,  that  undulates  until 
barred  by  distant  mountains.  This  table-land 
is  itself  so  high,  and  the  mountains  so  near,  they 
seem,  rather  than  moimtains,  dunes  of  ice,  or 
waves  of  some  cosmic  sea  congealed  in  the  dawn 
when  first  our  world  began.  Curiously  enough 
they  suggest  motion,  despite  their  solid  immo- 
bility. Far  behind,  across  the  invisible  valley 
which  separates  them  from  the  plateau,  the  view 
is  closed  by  lion-coloured  peaks  powdered  with 
snow.  The  sim  is  now  sinking  toward  these 
jagged  crests,  as  it  flings  long  shadows  down 
their  flanks. 

The  poor  horses  have  the  utmost  difficulty  in 


88       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

dragging  the  carriages  through  the  snow,  in  ruts 
often  a  foot  or  more  deep.  All  of  us — drivers, 
Aghajan,  Said,  and  myself — plod  along  on  foot, 
hauling  our  legs  out  of  deep  snow  as  best  we  can. 
It  is  pitiful  to  watch  the  horses  straining,  and  see 
how  their  sides  quiver  and  their  legs  tremble, 
whenever  they  are  forced  to  stop — which  is,  at 
most,  every  hundred  yards.  Slowly  we  toil  across 
the  plain,  the  sun  sinking  swiftly  all  the  while. 
The  peaks  ahead  of  us  have  begun  to  cast 
long  shadows,  creeping  slowly  toward  us,  whilst 
the  hills  behind  grow  rosy.  Finally  we  reach  the 
further  side  of  the  plateau,  only  to  realise  that  the 
worst  is  yet  before  us.  We  must  cross  the  chain 
of  mountains  that  rear  a  wall  before  us,  by  a  road 
ascending  precipitously  in  four  great  loops.  It 
is  a  horrid  prospect  and  my  heart  aches  for  the 
horses,  yet  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  go  on.  They 
start  up  the  purgatorial  ascent,  struggling  on 
through  deep  snow  a  few  yards  at  a  time;  then 
halt  with  harried  nostrils,  panting  and  steaming, 
■ — whilst  I  recall  Blake's  vision  of  the  infernal 
cliffs  up  which  Vergil  and  Dante  clomb.  Little 
by  little  they  advance  with  real  suffering,  which 
fills  me  with  distress  and  anxiety  lest  their  strength 
fail  before  the  top. 

When  the  poor  beasts  reach  the  final  stretch,  I 
walk  ahead  to  the  summit — over  six  thousand  feet 
above  sea  level — where  it  is  possible  to  look  down 
both  slopes.  Ahead  of  me  the  sun  has  just  touched 
the  snowy  crests,  whose  spreading  flanks  are  al- 


Imam  Quli 


'■'*\r^ 


Late  Afternoon  on  the  Uplands  above  Imam  Quli 
(The  horses  were  so  exhausted  they  had  to  rest  every  hundred  yards) 


A  Kabyle  in  Persia :     Said  in  the  Snow 


"  A  Lodging  for  a  Night  " 
(.This  is  the  room  with  jars  for  "  The  Forty  Thieves " ) 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  89 

ready  veiled  by  indigo  shadows,  except  where  the 
last  rays  still  lie  on  the  valley-edge.  Looking 
backward,  the  sky  directly  over  the  mountains 
is  faintly  bluish  green  changing  to  lavender,  which 
in  turn  melts  into  the  deeper  blues  of  the  zenith. 
The  amber  hills  flush,  then  gradually  grow  pale 
and  lustreless,  as  the  sun  descends  behind  the 
snow  mountains,  which  now  fade  from  greenish 

white  to  dull  grey The  silence  which  lies 

upon  these  lonely  hills  shrouded  in  snow,  is  sud- 
denly broken  by  the  creaking  of  a  vehicle,  climb- 
ing the  slope  I  am  waiting  to  descend.  After  a 
little,  I  can  see  the  post-waggon  moving  slowly 
upward  through  the  twilight.  It  is  a  rude  u-n- 
covered  affair,  like  a  small  hay-wain,  filled  with 
sacks  of  mail  on  which  a  few  passengers  are  perched. 
When  it  reaches  the  top,  I  make  signs  for  it  to 
halt,  since  it  cannot  possibly  pass  my  carriages 
further  down,  and  there  is  no  knowing  what 
might  have  happened,  had  I  not  chanced  to  be 
here.  Not  hearing  any  sound  from  my  horses,  I 
start  back — only  to  find  one  of  the  poor  beasts 
off  the  road,  floundering  in  snow  up  to  his  belly; 
while  the  four  men  cling  desperately  to  the  rear 
wheels,  in  order  to  keep  the  carriage  from  plung- 
ing down  the  precipitous  mountain-side,  and 
dashing  to  pieces  at  the  bottom  among  mangled 
horses.  Running  back  to  the  summit  as  quickly 
as  the  snow  will  permit,  I  send  men  and  a  horse 
from  the  post-waggon  down  to  the  rescue.  They 
succeed  in  extricating  my  animal;  then  with  the 


90       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

help  of  the  extra  horse  and  of  much  pushing  at 
rear  wheels,  at  last  haul  the  two  carriages  to  the 
top.  It  is  not  pleasant  to  think  what  my  predica- 
ment might  have  been,  had  the  post  not  arrived 
so  opportunely. 

It  is  six  o'clock  when  we  start  down,  so  there  is 
no  hope  of  reaching  Kuchan — my  intended  stop- 
ping place — to-night.  Dusk  now  lies  across  the 
hills;  as  we  move  downward  through  a  dim  world 
of  shadowy  blue,  the  impression  received  is  not 
so  much  of  sunlight  withdrawn,  as  of  all  life  and 
light  slowly  dying.  Darkness,  cold,  and  solitude, 
on  a  snow-clad  mountain  crest ;  it  is  a  dreary  almost 
sinister  hour,  recalling  all  the  sorrows  one  may 
have  ever  known.  As  night  falls,  stars  begin  to 
peer  from  the  darkling  sky;  whilst,  without  a 
light,  we  wind  down  what  must  be  a  road, 
swaying  close  to  the  invisible  edge,  over  which 
we  may  at  any  moment  crash.  When  the  level 
is  reached,  we  flounder  through  the  darkness  past 
two  caravanserais,  where  camels  resting  on 
folded  legs,  are  vaguely  visible  by  the  smoky 
light  of  fires,  around  which  drivers  huddle;  then, 
after  what  seems  hours,  reach  a  relay  where  we 
are  benighted. 

A  more  loathsome  place  in  which  to  lodge, 
would  be  hard  to  find.  After  looking  at  various 
sties  on  different  sides  of  a  boggy  court,  each  worse 
than  the  other,  and  then  falling  up  a  half  wall, 
half  stairway,  in  the  dark,  I  chose  the  room  where 
I  am  now  writing,  after  it  had  been  evacuated 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  91 

by  a  number  of  hags  and  bawling  brats.  It  may- 
be ten  by  fifteen  feet,  with  a  dirt  floor  and  a  mud 
roof.  Queer  niches  are  scooped  in  clay  walls 
black  with  soot.  My  camp-bed  has  been  pitched 
as  far  as  possible  from  the  walls,  and  my  luggage 
piled  in  a  comer.  Not  daring  to  investigate  the 
filth  in  dark  comers,  I  huddle  in  the  middle  of  the 
bed,  realising  how  people  used  to  feel  when  they 
"drew  the  skirts  of  their  robes  about  them." 
The  only  light  is  that  of  candles  brought  with  me, 
and  a  fire  of  green  logs  blazing  on  the  primitive 
hearth.  This  fire  may  sound  delightful,  but  is 
not,  since  it  pours  all  its  smoke  into  the  room; 
I  am  shivering  with  cold  in  the  midst  of  a  thick 
and  acrid  fog,  which  chokes  me  and  fills  my  eyes 
with  rheum.  At  one  end  of  this  agreeable  lodging 
I  can  just  distinguish  three  enormous  jars — pre- 
sumably for  oil — so  precisely  like  those  in  which 
"The  Forty  Thieves"  were  hid  as  to  startle  me 
with  a  sensation  of  meeting  unexpectedly  things 
known  long  ago.  No  food  of  any  sort  can  be 
bought,  borrowed,  or  stolen.  The  tins  brought 
from  Askabad — in  dim  prevision  of  what  lay  be- 
fore me — prove  a  horrid  mess;  so  I  am  reduced 
to  bread,  and  remnants  of  dates  and  chocolate, 
cheered  by  tea  made  in  my  precious  samovar. 
The  only  thing  between  me  and  despair  is  a  sense 
of  humour,  aided  by  Said's  ungrumbling  service 
and  appreciation  of  the  comic.  Undressing  is  an 
impossibility  in  this  sty,  so  there  is  nothing  to  do 
but  go  to  bed  fully  clothed. 


92        MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

February  22?'' 
About  one  o'clock  last  night,  I  was  roused  by 
the  tinkling  of  camel-bells. 

"Behold,  the  driver  has  risen  and  made  ready  his  files 
of  camels. 

And  begged  us  to  acquit  him  of  blame:  why,  O 
travellers,  are  you  asleep? 

These  sounds  before  and  behind  are  the  din  of  de- 
parture and  of  the  camel-bells; 

With  each  moment  a  soul  and  a  spirit  is  setting  off 
into  the  Void." 

It  must  have  been  a  large  caravan,  since  it  took 
a  long  time  for  the  sound  to  pass  and  die.  The 
road  being  at  some  distance,  the  jangling  of  bells 
was  subdued  to  a  plaintive  rhythm — very  strange 
to  hear  late  at  night  when  suddenly  awakened  in 
my  hovel,  with  its  Ali  Baba  jars  dimly  visible  in 
the  wanness  of  fore-dawn.  They  are  large  enough 
to  hold  a  man  easily,  and  to  see  one  emerge  from 
them  would  scarcely  have  surprised  me,  so  fitting 
would  it  have  seemed.  The  night  was  bitterly 
cold,  and  even  fully  dressed,  with  rugs  and  coats 
piled  over  me,  I  had  to  pull  the  sheet  over  my 
benumbed  head  and  draw  up  my  knees,  until  I 
lay  in  a  shivering  ball  that  longed  for  home. 
After  that  I  was  twice  wakened  by  voices  calling 
a  Husayn  who  appeared  loath  to  rise,  for  which  I 
could  scarcely  blame  him.  This  name — com- 
memorating Karbala's  martyr — shouted  through 
the  night,  made  me  realise  that  at  last  I  was  really 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  93 

in  the  land  of  Shi'a,  which  books  describe  in  so 
alluring  a  fashion. 

Poor  Said  could  find  no  possible  place  in  which 
to  lodge,  so  was  obliged  to  spend  the  entire  night 
in  one  of  the  carriages,  trying  not  to  freeze  to 
death.  As  the  cold  made  sleep  impossible,  he  lit 
the  stump  of  a  candle,  fixed  it  on  the  opposite 
seat,  and  attempted  to  ward  off  insanity  by  study- 
ing his  English  grammar  until  one  o'clock.  I  take 
my  hat  off  to  the  resource,  endurance,  and  good 
temper  of  Kabyles. 

My  toilet,  in  the  bitter  greyness  before  sun-up, 
is  hasty  and  summary.  The  coachmen  are  as 
usual  late,  and  I  begin  to  fear  that  Aghajan  will 
be  of  little  use  in  dealing  with  them.  The  carriage 
wheels  have  frozen  to  the  ruts  and  have  to  be 
chopped  out  with  an  axe;  so  it  is  seven- thirty 
before  we  are  able  to  start.  After  rattling  down 
the  turns  of  a  hillside  track,  over  whose  edge  it 
would  at  any  moment  be  easy  to  slip,  we  come  in 
sight  of  a  wide  plain  covered  with  snow,  stretching 
away  until  it  touches  a  mighty  range  of  snow 
mountains,  congealed  in  one  vast  agitation  of 
white.  This  chain  is  really  divided  into  two,  of 
which  the  more  remote  is  so  pallid  and  of  so  shim- 
mering a  blue-white  as  to  seem  vision  rather  than 
reality.  Taking  our  way  across  the  plain,  we  find 
it  interspersed  with  long  stretches  of  mud,  growing 
more  and  more  numerous  as  the  snow  melts  and 
then  disappears, — which  makes  me  realise  the 
true  meaning  of  those  lines : 


94       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

"Like  Snow  upon  the  Desert's  dusty  Face 
[Lighting  a  little  hour  or  two." 

There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  road,  just  a  collection 
of  ruts — at  first  frozen,  then  extremely  boggy — 
which  wander  in  desultory  fashion  across  the  level 
groimd.  The  carriage  sinks  deep,  creaking  and 
swaying  with  the  jerky  pull  of  the  exhausted  horses 
Every  few  minutes,  it  seems  as  though  the  ram- 
shackle vehicle  must  fall  in  pieces,  or  a  poor  horse 
succumb.  So  detestable  a  carriage-way  I  have 
never  sc^n  before,  and  should  like  never  to  see 
again: — but  I  fear  Persia  has  many  similar 
surprises  for  unsuspecting  travellers. 

From  time  to  time  we  pass  through  villages 
with  windowless  houses  of  sun-dried  clay,  so  low 
and  small  they  appear  a  child's  plaything.  On 
the  comers  of  terraced  roofs,  white  dogs  bask  in 
the  sun  and  then  leap  to  their  feet,  barking  angrily 
as  we  rattle  past;  while  a  few  long-robed  men 
lounge  about,  with  their  blue  mitre-like  bonnets 
pushed  off  their  shaven  foreheads.  Now  we  are 
overtaking  a  string  of  camels  and  fourgons — as  the 
rude  waggons  are  here  called — laden  with  sugar- 
bales  and  oil-tins.  They  are  escorted  by  Persian 
soldiers,  mounted  and  heavily  armed,  one  of  whom 
wears  a  complete  cuirass  of  six  rows  of  cartridges. 
It  appears  that  the  convoy  has  been  caught  while 
attempting  to  smuggle  ammimition,  which  is 
contraband  in  Persia;  and  is  now  being  led  to 
judgment    and    probably    confiscation.     A    little 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  95 

after  eleven  o'clock  we  arrive  at  Kuchan,  having 
covered  only  three  and  a  halifarsakhs.  The  farsakh 
is  a  measure,  devised  to  torture  travellers  who 
venture  into  Persia.  It  is  supposed  to  represent 
the  distance  a  loaded  mule  can  travel  in  one  hour, 
and  is  generally  considered  the  equivalent  of  four 
English  miles.  In  reality,  it  varies  wilfully  be- 
tween three  and  six  or  seven  miles.  Whenever 
the  driver  has — through  his  interpreter — assured 
the  weary  traveller  he  has  only  a  "little 
farsakh"  to  go,  he  may  be  certain  that  his  goal 
lies  miles  away.  In  fact,  the  word  has  already 
grown  so  hateful,  the  mere  sound  of  it  now  plunges 
me  in  nightmares  to  which  the  labours  of  Tantalus 
seem  light. 

Kuchan  is  still  a  considerable  place,  outside 
whose  walls  a  mighty  sovereign  was,  in  the  eigh- 
teenth century,  slain  by  his  own  soldiers; — that 
Nadir  Quli  Khan  known  as  Nadir  Shah,  who  from 
a  robber-chief  grew  to  be  lord  of  Persia ;  a  resistless 
conqueror  memorable  as  the  man  who  swept  across 
the  East,  sacked  imperial  Delhi,  and  carried  off 
the  untold  treasure  of  the  Great  Moghal,  only  to 
end  his  reign  in  ferocious  excess,  and  fall  by  an 
assassin's  stroke  while  besieging  an  obscure  town 

in  Khurasan I  have  decided  to  stay  the 

night  here,  though  it  is  not  yet  mid-day;  not  out 
of  admiration  for  Nadir  Shah,  but  simply  because 
I  am  not  willing,  in  my  soiled  and  weary  condition, 
to  risk  another  lodging  like  last  night's.  Com- 
pared with  that,  I  am  housed  in  a  palace;  this 


96       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

means  that  I  have  secured,  and  made  Aghajan 
sweep,  a  small  empty  room  with  sooty  walls  once 
whitewashed.  It  boasts  a  stove,  that  may  perhaps 
smoke  a  little  less  than  the  so-called  fire-places. 
A  rickety  table  has  been  produced,  whose  dirt  is 
hidden  by  a  piece  of  red  cotton  bought  at  a  nearby 
shop.  This  splendid  room  looks  out  on  a  sodden 
courtyard  but  mildly  odoriferous,  where  a  few 
battered  carriages  are  standing;  cows  and  sheep 
stroll  about  placidly,  and  dogs  fly  yelping  from 
the  vindictive  onslaughts  of  a  small  boy.  Over 
the  mud  walls,  two  clumps  of  green-gold  poplars 
stand  out  against  the  sky  of  tender  blue,  above 
which  a  few  nacre-tinted  clouds  drift  slowly.  In 
the  portico  outside  my  room,  a  small  Persian  child 
is  peeking  at  me,  while  two  adolescents  are  walk- 
ing up  and  down,  trying  to  appear  unconcerned, 
but  really  eager  to  watch  the  firangl  with  all  his 
queer  belongings.  A  Russian  soldier  has  just 
strolled  into  the  manury  courtyard,  and  several 
more  are  in  the  streets  outside. 

The  town — which  is  fairly  large — comprises 
two  principal  streets,  intersecting  in  the  maiddn 
or  square,  where  a  market  is  being  held  at  present. 
These  streets  are  lined  by  booths  protected  by  a 
continuous  shed  carried  on  wooden  poles.  Here  I 
see  for  the  first  time  those  turbans  of  vivid  grass- 
green,  which  the  Shi'ite  followers  of  'All  affect. 
Many  of  the  men  have  a  curiously  ferocious  air, 
thanks  to  their  extraordinary  beards  dyed  rust- 
red  with  henna.     The  natural  colour,  black  or 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  97 

dirty  grey,  generally  shows  in  lines  of  varying 
width,  where  the  hair  has  grown  out  since  last  dyed, 
giving  the  wearer  a  most  unkempt  appearance. 
These  flaming  beards  suggest  Herodes  Antipas, 
and  a  barbaric  artificiality  strangely  out  of  keep- 
ing with  the  shabby  Persians  of  to-day.  The 
inhabitants  of  Kuchan  also  wear  socks  elaborately 
woven  in  flowered  patterns,  that  make  their  feet 
conspicuous  when  they  walk  away  in  heelless 
slippers.  Most  of  the  shops  are  devoted  to  the 
sale  of  sweets,  and  have  sticks  of  spar-like  sugar- 
candy  in  huge  bowls  awaiting  customers.  Another 
speciality  is  wheat  bread — the  only  kind  known 
in  Persia — baked  in  enormous  cakes  no  thicker 
than  a  knife-blade,  and  full  of  bulby  inequalities, 
looking  rather  like  huge  pancakes  much  under- 
cooked. They  are  exposed  for  sale  on  dirty  rugs 
thrown  over  inclined  planes  near  the  ovens.  I 
ate  some  of  this  bread  for  the  first  time  at 
luncheon,  and  found  it  not  unpalatable.  At  street 
corners,  vendors  are  seated  beside  large  bowls 
filled  with  a  thick  brew  of  rice  or  flour,  surrounded 
by  spoons  and  smaller  bowls  set  on  trays  to  tempt 
the  hungry.  At  both  ends  of  the  main  street 
there  are  glimpses  of  snow-mountains,  which  relieve 
the  sordidness  of  this  shabby  town. 

Strolling  through  Kuchan,  I  find  myself  haunted 
by  Thackeray's  disillusioned  phrase:  "We  arrive 
at  places  now,  but  we  travel  no  more."  To  be 
well-informed  has  certainly  its  disadvantage,  in 
so  much  as  it  destroys  that  element  of  surprise 
7 


98       MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

which  must  have  given  to  travel  in  old  days  a  zest 
we  modems  shall  never  know.  We  have  read 
and  heard  so  much  about  foreign  parts,  photo- 
graphs and  illustrations  have  depicted  their 
peculiarities  so  accurately,  that  when  we  suddenly 
find  ourselves  face  to  face  with  reality — however 
remote — it  has  lost  its  novelty.  All  this  ineluct- 
ably  exposes  us  to  a  disillusion,  from  which  only 
a  few  of  the  world's  most  perfect  shrines  are  still 
exempt.  Walking  up  and  down  the  streets  of 
this  dreary  town,  the  general  effect  really  does 
not  differ  from  that  of  similar  places  in  other  lands; 
while  the  characteristic  and  to  me  novel  details 
seem  a  matter  of  course,  so  familiar  have  books 
and  pictures  made  them.  Alas!  no  country  can 
ever  compare  with  that  land  which  great  writers 
depict ;  and  the  endeavour  to  see  the  reality  behind 
the  glorious  image  evoked  by  their  magic  is  no 
doubt  a  folly.  I  am  certain  that  Nishapur  will 
never  stir  me  as  does  the  collocation  of  its  name 
in: — 

"Whether  at  Naishdpur  or  Babylon, 
Whether  the  Cup  with  sweet  or  bitter  run.  .  .  ." 

To  add  to  this  vague  discontent,  a  troop  of  some 
fifty  Russian  soldiers  rides  down  the  street.  Their 
presence  angers  me  in  a  place  where  they  have  no 
right  other  than  that  of  brute  force ;  yet  this  senti- 
ment is  futile,  since  this  is  only  an  instance  of  the 
law  that  the  strong  shall  devour  the  weak,  which, 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  99 

from  microbes  to  men,  rules  the  ravening  universe 
created  by  all-merciful  Providence. 


February  23^"* 
At  seven  o'clock  I  am  ready  to  leave,  but  there 
is  no  sign  of  the  carriages  ordered  to  be  ready  at 
this  hour.  My  peerless  henchman,  Aghajan,  has 
about  as  much  vigour  as  a  piece  of  boiled  macaroni 
set  on  end ;  no  amount  of  threats  and  scolding  can 
instill  into  him  enough  courage  to  cope  with  those 
impossible  animals  called,  in  Persia,  drivers.  After 
gazing  down  the  empty  street  for  a  fretful  half- 
hour,  I  make  it  so  unpleasant  that  he  prefers  to 
go  in  search  of  the  carriages,  which  finally  appear 
at  eight  o'clock.  The  road  is  the  same  kind  of  bog 
through  which  we  toiled  yesterday — exhausting 
to  the  horses,  and  very  shattering  to  the  nerves  of 
would-be  travellers.  We  are  still  crossing  a  desert, 
between  hills  rising  sharply  into  mountains.  The 
road  gradually  improves  and  snow  begins  to 
disappear,  the  plain  changing  from  brown  to  dove- 
colour  as  the  earth  grows  dryer.  At  last  clouds 
of  dust  rise  and  are  blown  forward  from  the 
wheels.  At  half -past  eleven  we  reach  the  relay, 
having  made  only  four  of  those  weary  farsakhs 
which  begin  to  haunt  me,  just  as  those  dreadful 
parasangs — of  which  they  are  the  modem  equiva- 
lent— used  to  do  in  the  days  of  the  Anabasis. 
I  find  Russian  soldiers  in  possession  of  the  caravan- 
serai, and  have  to  make  my  luncheon  of  hard- 


loo     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

boiled  eggs  and  Persian  bread  in  one  of  the  rooms 
they  occupy.  Two  horsemen  and  another  car- 
riage having  arrived,  I  make  my  first  acquaintance 
with  one  of  those  disputes  which  render  travelling 
post  in  Persia  so  exciting  and  exhausting  an  occu- 
pation. The  drivers  wish  to  make  me  wait,  while 
they  feed  and  rest  the  horses  I  have  already  used, 
instead  of  giving  me  those  which  were  in  the  stable 
when  I  arrived.  The  howling  shrill-voiced  row 
which  ensues,  no  words  can  describe.  After 
looking  on  for  some  time,  I  am  forced  to  join  in 
with  the  most  threatening  manner  I  know  how 
to  assume, — telling  Aghajan  to  lead  the  horses 
out  himself,  whilst  I  prevent  anyone  from  inter- 
fering. As  all  the  travellers  hereabout  are  covered 
with  cartridge-belts,  and  carry  bulging  pistols  or 
long  guns  slung  across  their  shoulders,  it  seems 
advisable  to  change  my  own  pistol  from  pocket 
to  pocket,  so  the  mob  of  bellicose  drivers  may  see 
that  I  too  am  armed.  Finally  my  shouts  so 
encourage  the  quivering  Aghajan  that  he  makes 
an  attempt  to  lead  the  horses  out  and  harness 
them.  This  decides  matters;  the  battle  having 
lasted  long  enough  to  feed  and  water  the  horses 
that  arrived  after  I  did,  they  are  now  led  out  and 
harnessed  to  the  luggage  carriage. 

These  four  white  beasts — with  a  saffron  strip 
around  their  necks  and  the  mark  of  a  hand  dipped 
in  henna  on  each  crupper — prove  sturdier  than 
the  average  sorry  jade,  short  as  their  rest  has  been. 
The  country  is  now  a  dry  desert,  across  which  I  can 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  loi 

see  a  mirage  of  water,  with  two  islands  and  black 
objects  that  might  be  taken  for  boats.  A  num- 
ber of  fourgons — one  of  them  with  gay-coloured 
curtains — rumble  by,  and  occasionally  a  horseman 
also  passes.  Villages  grow  more  numerous;  each 
one  fortified  by  mud  walls,  often  with  flanking 
towers,  and  always  with  huge  gateways  dominating 
all.  Bare  trees,  generally  pale  brassy  poplars,  clus- 
ter outside  and  within  the  walls.  The  earth,  look- 
ing as  though  it  might  once  have  been  ploughed, 
is  patterned  by  little  runnels  made  for  irrigation. 
To  the  left,  the  hills  clutch  the  plain  with  toe- 
like spurs,  then  rise  in  rufous  cliffs  free  from  snow, 
which  is  only  visible  on  the  higher  peaks  peering 
over  hill-crests.  On  the  right,  snow  still  streaks 
the  hills  and  mantles  the  mountains  far  behind. 
Towards  sundown  we  pass  villages  closely  grouped ; 
in  this  tender  light  the  fawn-coloured  walls  and 
fine  tracery  of  trees,  as  well  as  the  pale  mountains 
heaving  up  toward  the  delicately  tinted  sky, 
acquire  a  fugitive  charm  they  did  not  possess  at 
noon. 

Shortly  after  sunset,  while  the. last  light  is  fad- 
ing quickly,  we  reach  our  resting-place  at  Shimran. 
Here  the  road  lies  between  an  enormous  fortified 
enclosure  with  five  towers  on  each  side — built  in 
old  days  to  protect  caravans  against  robber  bands 
— and  a  giant  caravanserai,  whitewashed  and  two- 
storied,  a  veritable  palace.  Here  I  find  a  small 
but,  for  Persia,  very  clean  room,  with  white  walls 
and  a  brick  floor,  giving  on  the  terrace  which  roofs 


I02     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  lower  story.  At  the  edge  there  is  no  railing 
to  prevent  one's  pitching  down  to  the  courtyard 
below,  and  in  my  room  there  is  a  second  door 
opening  directly  on  a  black  void,  where  poplar 
tops  are  just  discernible;  heedless  movements 
are  therefore  inadvisable.  The  fire-place  of 
course  collects  all  the  smoke  and  then  belches  it 
steadily  into  my  cell.  Winter  travellers  in  Persia 
soon  become  so  expert  at  breathing  smoke,  no 
fire  can  ever  again  alarm  them.  The  much  kicked 
and  beaten  dogs — whose  yelping  fills  the  cara- 
vanserai— have  climbed  the  winding  stairs,  and 
are  now  peering  timorously  through  the  crack  in 
my  door.  Receiving  encouragement,  they  drag  in 
their  emaciated  bodies,  slinking  into  the  comers, 
but  gradually  grow  bold  enough  to  take  scraps 
and  bones  from  my  hand. 

February  24*^ 
The  drivers,  having  been  ordered  for  six  o'clock, 
manage  to  appear  at  seven,  and  we  start  at  seven- 
thirty — the  hour  I  had  fixed  in  my  mind,  which  is 
an  improvement  on  yesterday.  On  waking,  the 
sky  was  clear,  but  a  heavy  mist  soon  gathered, 
enclosing  us  in  shrouds  of  white,  and  silvering 
the  ground  with  rime.  Before  long,  however,  as 
it  bums  away,  the  air  grows  almost  hot.  Meeting 
an  on-coming  carriage,  we  are  forced  to  exchange 
one  of  our  teams  for  theirs,  receiving  only  three 
horses  in  return  for  four.  They  are,  however, 
the  first  healthy-looking  beasts  I  have  seen,  and 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  103 

drive  along  heartily.  At  the  next  relay  there  are 
no  horses  at  all,  so  we  have  to  wait  an  hour  to 
rest  and  feed  the  poor  creatures  we  brought  with 
us;  during  which  time  I  make  my  anchorite's 
lunch  in  a  corner  of  the  court,  in  the  company  of 
frizzle-feathered  hens.  The  road  leads  on  mono- 
tonously through  the  same  dreary  plain,  but  there 
are  more  indications  of  life,  even  once  or  twice 
men  engaged  in  tilling  the  ground.  At  last  the 
first  signs  of  Mashhad  appear:  over  a  screen  of 
poplar-trees,  a  golden  dome  and  a  larger  one  of 
turquoise  blue  beside  a  slender  minaret,  probably 
the  celebrated  shrine  of  Imam  Rida.  As  we  draw 
near,  one  of  the  city  gates  appears;  a  large  arch, 
crowned  by  two  tall  pepper-pots  coated  with 
diversely  coloured  tiles,  is  squeezed  between  two 
squat  but  swelling  towers.  Instead  of  entering 
here,  we  drive  along  the  walls  built  of  dried  clay 
with  scalloped  tops,  interrupted  by  buttress- 
towers  at  regular  intervals;  innumerable  crows 
are  holding  assemblies  on  the  fortifications,  or 
flying  away  in  sable  clouds.  These  crumbling 
dust-coloured  walls,  advancing  and  retreating 
at  various  angles,  with  their  lace-like  edges  fes- 
tooned with  crows,  are  highly  picturesque.  We 
finally  enter  by  another  gate,  also  adorned  by 
several  of  those  elongated  pepper-pots  which 
seem  so  popular  here.  We  then  wind  through 
the  town  in  search  of  the  Bank,  passing  between 
walls  of  baked  brick  faintly  umber  colour;  there 
are  long  stretches  without  houses,  just  walls  en- 


104     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

closing  a  property;  but  even  among  the  shops  the 
streets  are,  for  such  a  place,  rather  clean.  We 
are  given  conflicting  directions,  and  only  discover 
the  Bank  after  driving  through  the  covered  bazars, 
and  twice  turning  around  with  much  difficulty. 
Here  they  courteously  give  me  a  farrdsh  to  show 
the  way  to  the  "hotel."  When  I  first  heard  the 
word  farrdsh  applied  to  an  ordinary  attendant  in 
livery,  my  sensations  were  curious,  as  hitherto  it 
had  suggested  only  the  "dark  Ferrash"  of  'Umar's 
verse.  This  fellow  is  dark,  but  not  all  ominous 
or  romantic;  nor  can  he  strike  my  tent,  since  to 
my  great  regret  I  do  not  own  one,  and  must  there- 
fore let  him  guide  me  to  a  lodging.  The  "hotel'* 
— with  a  sign  Cafe  d'Honneur  over  its  tiny  door — 
proves  to  be  but  little  better  than  a  roadside 
caravanserai.  The  proprietor  asks  an  exorbitant 
price  for  wretched  rooms ;  but  since  no  bargaining 
will  bring  him  down,  and  no  other  place  of  lodging 
can  be  found,  I  am  forced  to  accept  his  robber's 
terms.  Just  after  getting  as  decently  settled  as 
circumstances  will  permit,  I  discover  the  opening 
of  a  noisome  drain  directly  below  my  window; 
all  I  can  do  is  to  pray  that  bacilli  and  noxious 
gases  may  prefer  the  courtyard  to  my  room. 
Near  at  hand  is  the  main  square  of  Mashhad;  a 
large  open  space  surrounded  by  low  buildings  of 
brick  with  occasional  ornaments  in  tile-mosaic, 
its  centre  occupied  by  a  modem  band-stand,  while 
the  walls  of  a  ruinous  fortress  dominate  one  comer. 
A  number  of  Persians  are  strolling  about  listening 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  105 

to  a  band,  wearing  the  small  round  black  hats  of 
the  country,  but  otherwise  dressed  in  European 
clothes,  often  in  frock-coats — since  any  skirtless 
garment  is  here  considered  immodest.  All  this 
gives  the  ancient  town  a  vague  air  of  shoddy 
modernity. 

February  25*^ 
An  overcast  day.  My  first  visit  is  to  the 
bazars.  They  are  vaulted  by  domes  of  brick, 
with  circular  apertures,  strengthened  here  and 
there  by  cross-beams  on  which  rows  of  pigeons 
perch.  There  are  no  gorgeous  costumes  as  in 
Bukhara,  nor  anything  really  curious;  yet  I  find 
these  bazars  more  diverting  than  those  in 
Turkestan — perhaps  because  I  expected  nothing. 
The  things  which  attract  attention  are:  a  strange 
kind  of  bread  like  fans  of  coral,  rather  sweet  and 
pleasant  to  taste;  small  red  chickens  made  of 
sweetmeats,  exposed  for  sale  on  the  ends  of  straws; 
and  men  making  Persian  hats.  At  the  rear  of  the 
shop  a  man  cards  and  beats  the  wool,  while  others 
roll  disks  of  wool  in  a  white  paste,  in  order  to 
stiffen  them  enough  to  mould  them  into  shape. 
Most  of  the  wares  are  obviously  of  Russian  manu- 
facture, but  the  carpets  are  the  best  I  have  so  far 
seen.  At  one  point  there  is  a  glimpse  of  the  Shah's 
Mosque,  ruinous  and  with  only  a  few  tiles  left, 
but  still  picturesque.  Suddenly  I  come  upon  a 
chain  stretched  across  the  bazar;  beyond  this  no 
foreigner  is  allowed  to  pass  since  Russian  troops 


io6     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

violated  the  shrine  of  Imam  Rida,  the  most  sacred 
spot  in  all  Persia.  The  truth  about  such  an  oc- 
currence is  difficult  to  ascertain  anywhere,  but 
in  the  East  doubly  so ;  however,  there  seems  little 
reason  to  doubt  that  the  whole  affair  was  pre- 
arranged by  Russian  authority,  with  a  view  to 
terrorising  the  inhabitants.  It  is  believed  that 
the  Russian  Consul  deliberately  persuaded  men  to 
take  bast  or  sanctuary,  an  immemorial  privilege 
of  Persian  shrines ;  then  when  the  mullas  in  charge 
of  the  shrine  refused  to  violate  the  right  of  sanc- 
tuary by  handing  the  men  over  to  the  Russian 
officials,  it  was  bombarded  and  entered  by  Russian 
soldiers  acting  under  orders.  The  Russians  deny 
having  looted  the  sanctuary;  yet  the  largest  of 
the  sacred  pictures  was,  to  my  own  knowledge, 
afterward  offered  for  sale  in  Tihran,  bought,  and 
sent  on  its  way  back  to  Mashhad,  through  the 
munificence  of  a  foreign,  but  not  a  Russian,  official. 
Whether  or  not  this  be  the  true  story,  the  bom- 
bardment of  the  shrine  has  caused  the  Russians 
to  be  cordially  hated ;  and  neither  it  nor  the  hang- 
ing of  the  mullas  at  Tabriz,  will  ever  be  forgiven 
by  Persians. 

As  there  is  no  hope  of  getting  nearer  to  the 
shrine,  I  persuade  a  farrdsh  to  show  me  the  way 
to  caravanserai-roofs  where  views  are  to  be  had. 
From  the  first,  I  see  the  frontal  wall  and  turquoise 
dome  of  a  nearby  mosque,  with  the  minarets  and 
gilded  dome  of  the  shrine  visible  in  the  distance. 
Then  he  leads  me  by  circuitous  ways  to  a  roof 


The  Gates  of  Masshad 


The  Shrine  of  Imam  Rida,  Masshad 

All  unbelievers  are  forbidden  access,  but  the  sanctuary  has  been  bombarded  and 

violated  by  Russian  troops 


The  Citadel  of  Tus 
This  was  the  birth-  and  burial-place  of  Firdowsi 


The  First  but  not  the  Last  Time  We  Stuck  in  the  Mud 
Masshad  to  Nishdpur 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  107 

close  to  the  sanctuary.  At  my  feet  a  narrow 
street,  thronged  with  people,  leads  between  rows 
of  booths  to  a  tiled  archway,  in  front  of  which 
two  long  strips  of  dark  blue  linen,  belonging  to 
some  dyer's  shop,  depend  like  banners.  Past 
this  point  no  foreigner  was  ever  allowed  to  go. 
Beyond  the  gateway  a  broad  avenue,  also  densely 
crowded,  reaches  to  the  entrance  of  the  shrine. 
I  can  also  see  a  great  facade — like  those  at  Samar- 
qand — decorated  with  tile-mosaics,  the  main 
archway  being  surmounted  by  a  small  wooden 
structure  with  a  sloping  roof  and  arched  openings, 
where  objects  like  lamps  are  hanging.  To  right 
and  left  are  slender  minarets,  crowned  with  over- 
hanging cages  such  as  must  formerly  have  existed 
on  the  mosques  in  Turkestan.  To  the  left  and 
at  right  angles  with  this  fagade,  the  back  of  another 
is  visible,  with  the  golden  cupola  of  the  sanctuary 
glittering  above  it  even  in  this  sullen  light.  Still 
another  fagade  is  visible  further  off,  with  the  blue 
dome  of  the  mosque  I  have  just  seen,  in  the  far 
distance. 

On  my  way  back,  I  chance  upon  a  scene  from 
the  Arabian  Nights: — escorted  by  shabby  soldiers 
with  rifles  and  fixed  bayonets,  three  vendors 
caught  thieving  or  with  false  weights,  are  parading 
the  bazars,  holding  their  wares  on  trays,  and  with 
large  paper  placards,  covered  with  Persian  script, 
pinned  on  their  breasts.  A  little  further  on,  an 
amused  or  indifferent  crowd  has  collected  around 
a  poor  creature  in  a  fit,  that  forces  him  into  a 


io8      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

series  of  contortions  like  an  acrobat's;  as  horrid 
a  sight  as  ever  I  hope  to  see.  The  women  of 
Mashhad  are  enveloped  from  head  to  foot  in  black 
mantles,  and  wear  white  face-veils,  put  on  over  the 
mantle  and  held  in  place  by  two  strings  fastened 
by  a  gold  brooch  at  the  back  of  the  head.  These 
veils  have  two  pieces  of  drawn-work  directly  over 
the  eyes,  and  are  pulled  in  at  the  bottom  under 
the  mantle  edges,  until  they  look  like  bibs.  These 
sable  females  resemble  nothing  so  much  as  crows 
hopping  along  with  tails  dragging  on  the  ground. 

Before  returning  to  the  hotel,  I  stop  to 

leave  my  letter  of  introduction  to  the  Persian 
General ;  he  is  very  civil  and  wishes  to  present  me 
to  the  Governor  of  Mashhad,  a  royal  prince,  one 
of  the  innumerable  descendants  of  the  prolific 
Path  'All  Shah.  On  stopping  to  pay  my  respects 
at  the  British  Consulate  General,  I  find  to  my 
surprise  that  the  Consul  has  heard  of  my  intended 
visit  to  Mashhad  from  friends  in  London,  and  has, 
on  learning  of  my  arrival,  already  sent  me  an 
invitation  to  stay  with  him.  With  what  alacrity 
I  accept  his  courteous  offer,  is  easy  to  imagine. 


February  26*? 
About  six  o'clock  last  evening,  after  donning  a 
ceremonial  frock-coat  and  the  opera-hat  which  is 
the  best  imitation  of  a  top-hat  I  can  supply,  I 
walked  to  the  comer  of  the  square,  feeling  thor- 
oughly ridiculous.     Here  the  Governor's  carriage, 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  109 

drawn  by  a  pair  of  fast  horses  and  escorted  by  two 
cavalry-men,  was  waiting  to  dash  with  me  across 
the  square  to  the  entrance  of  the  fortress.  There 
an  attendant,  only  half-visible  in  the  dark,  lead 
me  through  a  tortuous  succession  of  unlighted 
corridors,  where  sentinels  stationed  at  intervals 
saluted  by  banging  the  butts  of  their  guns  on  the 
ground  so  suddenly  they  made  me  jump.  After 
crossing  a  court  and  passing  through  a  large  room 
quite  bare  except  for  a  carpet,  I  found  the  Gov- 
ernor sitting  cross-legged  on  the  floor  of  a  smaller 
room.  He  is  a  very  small  old  man,  with  a  droop- 
ing moustache  and  those  falling  comers  of  the 
mouth  which  so  often  give  a  dubious  expression 
to  Persian  faces.  He  wore  a  small  Persian  bonnet, 
but  a  European  frock-coat  and  trousers  with 
white  socks,  his  shoes  having  of  course  been  re- 
moved before  entering  the  house.  This  cleanly 
custom,  so  at  variance  with  Oriental  indifference 
to  dirt  in  general,  makes  a  man  feel  that  to  wear 
boots  within  doors  is  really  the  untidy  habit  of 
barbarians.  When  I  entered,  the  Governor  rose 
to  receive  me,  and — my  friend  the  General  acting 
as  interpreter,  since  the  Prince  speaks  no  French — 
made  one  of  those  embroidered  speeches  that  are 
indispensable  in  the  Orient.  I  endeavoured  to 
make  my  replies  as  flowered  as  possible,  which 
was  the  easier  as  I  was  speaking  French.  We 
then  sat  around  a  small  table  set  with  cakes  and 
cigarettes,  where  tea  was  first  served  and  then 
small  cups  of  most  delicious  coffee  flavoured  with 


no     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

rose.  The  room  was  lighted  by  two  European 
lamps  standing  on  the  floor,  and  by  candlesticks 
with  glass  shades  placed  on  the  table.  While  tea 
was  in  progress  the  Governor  smoked  a  wonderful 
qalyun — as  the  Persian  water  pipe  is  called — that 
was  brought  in  and  placed  on  a  stand  beside  him. 
This  pipe  must  have  been  four  or  five  feet  high, 
with  a  gold  bowl  studded  with  turquoises.  It  was 
taken  out  to  be  refilled  and  brought  back  several 
times,  the  Governor  each  time  making  a  loud 
bubbly  noise  as  he  smoked.  When  he  first  took 
an  arm-chair,  he  kept  his  feet  on  the  floor,  but 
when  the  qalyun  arrived,  drew  them  up  under  him, 
sitting  cross-legged  like  an  Eastern  potentate  on 
his  throne.  The  commander  of  the  troops  came 
in  a  little  later — a  young  man  speaking  excellent 
French,  who  has  lived  ten  years  in  St.  Petersburg 
and  speaks  Russian,  doubtless  an  ardent  pro- 
Russian,  since  there  are  some  even  in  Persia. 
He  very  kindly  offered  me  horses  and  an  escort  for 
the  excursion  to  Tus.  The  manners  of  everyone 
were  exquisite,  but  the  whole  scene  was  a  peculiar 
mixture  of  neglect  and  ceremonial  distinction,  not 
without  its  dignity. 

After  my  audience  was  at  an  end,  I  returned  to 
the  British  Consulate,  whither  my  kit  had  in  the 
meantime  been  transferred.  The  Consul  is  a 
member  of  the  Indian  Political  Service,  a  gentle- 
man of  the  old  school,  who  combines  the  learning  of 
a  savant  with  the  experience  of  a  soldier.  He  has 
a  wife  and  daughter,  whose  charm  and  skill  render 


TEC  -  ART  Si'uDiOS,  INC. 

ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  in 

the  remote  Consulate  as  attractive  as  a  home  in 
England.  The  unstinted  hospitality  and  perfect 
naturalness  of  the  entire  family  make  a  stranger 
feel  perfectly  at  ease  before  an  hour  has  passed. 
To  meet  such  people  would  be  a  privilege  in  any 
part  of  the  world ;  to  be  received  in  their  delightful 
home  after  days  on  the  roads  of  Khurasan,  is  a 
sensation   none   can   appreciate   but   those   who 

have  wandered  in  the  East 

To-day  the  skies  are  still  threatening.  From 
the  window  of  my  room  in  the  Consulate,  I  can 
see — above  the  compound  wall  and  the  trees 
beyond — the  blue  dome  of  the  mosque  between 
its  two  slender  minarets.  About  ten  o'clock,  word 
comes  that  the  horses  which  the  Commander  has 
so  courteously  placed  at  my  disposal,  have  just 
arrived.  I  find  that  he  has  sent  his  own  superb 
stallion  and  a  horse  for  my  good-for-nothing  yet 
indispensable  interpreter,  Aghajan,  also  two  cav- 
alrymen with  shaggy  Turkoman  bonnets,  and  a 
suwar,  or  soldier,  armed  with  a  gun  slung  over  his 
shoulder.  We  therefore  form  quite  a  prancing 
cavalcade,  when  I  start  to  visit  all  that  Mongol 
hordes  and  the  son  of  Timur  Lang  have  left  of  Tus 
— a  great  city  that  rose  in  the  reign  of  Kay  Khus- 
raw  (the  half-mythical  King  whose  name  will 
stir  all  lovers  of  'Umar  Fitzgerald),  but  would 
probably  have  been  long  forgotten,  did  not  fame 
recall  it  as  the  birth-place  of  Persia's  great  epic 
poet  Firdawsi.  Riding  through  the  muddy  streets 
and  out  into  the  level  country,  the  weather  begins 


112      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

to  lighten.  The  clouds,  however,  still  rest  on 
the  hills,  to-day  subtly  shaded  expanses  of  blue 
and  purple.  At  the  left,  the  mountains  are  metal- 
lic and  blackish,  with  unglittering  snow-caps — 
like  hard  white  enamel — lost  in  the  clouds  above. 
Outside  the  mud- walled  villages,  poplars  form  a 
wavering  hedge  with  their  stems  of  green-gold, 
like  the  funeral  masks  found  at  Myceuce,  or  like 
brass  that  has  grown  green  with  neglect  and 
rain. 

After  an  exhilarating  gallop  of  two  hours  across 
the  plain,  the  ruined  mausoleum  at  Tus  comes 
into  sight,  and  a  half -hour  later  we  reach  the  waste 
that  was  once  so  great  a  city.  Dismounting  to 
photograph  the  bridge,  my  stallion — held  by  one 
of  the  Turkomen — begins  to  neigh  ferociously 
and  let  fly  at  the  other  horse,  which  the  owner  is 
forced  to  abandon.  My  beast  continues  to  neigh 
and  plunge  wildly,  while  the  other  dashes  off  pur- 
sued by  the  rest  of  the  escort,  until  finally  captured 
with  some  difficulty.  Mounting  again  after  this 
little  incident,  I  cross  the  Kashaf  Rud — or  Tor- 
toise Stream — by  the  very  bridge  Firdawsi's  much 
wandering  feet  must  have  often  trod,  as  his  eyes 
rested  on  the  mountain-tops  I  can  still  see  to- 
day before  and  behind  me.  Beside  the  arches  of 
this  bridge — says  legend — the  precious  caravan, 
bearing  gifts  of  indigo  from  the  repentant  "mighty 
Mahmud,  Allah  breathing  Lord"  of  Ghazni,  en- 
countered the  funeral  procession  bearing  to  rest 
all  that  was  left  of  the  poet,  now  grown  insensible 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  113 

to  all  the  wealth  and  honours  of  the  world.  Pass- 
ing through  the  Rudbar  Gate — called  the  "Indigo** 
in  memory  of  this — that  is  to-day  nothing  more 
than  a  breach  in  the  low  mounds  to  which  the 
ancient  walls  have  crumbled,  the  mausoleum, 
erroneously  called  the  Tomb  of  Firdawsl,  looms 
across  the  barren  plain  before  me.  It  is  a  square 
building,  domed  and  with  great  arches,  now  stripped 
of  all  decoration;  just  bare  walls  of  golden-brown 
brick,  ribbed  by  the  vertical  strips  and  blind 
arches  once  encrusted  with  multi-coloured  mosaic. 
Inside,  the  dome  is  pierced  by  an  opening,  through 
which  the  clouds  can  be  seen  scudding  in  wool- 
packs  across  that  other  "inverted  bowl,  the 
sky." 

I  am  writing  stretched  on  the  ground  in  shade 
flung  by  its  ruinous  walls.  All  around  me  stretches 
the  fawn-coloured  plain,  striped  with  pale  green 
where  the  tender  shoots  of  young  wheat  begin  to 
pierce  the  earth.  Far  away  to  the  left  the  mount- 
ains rise,  ashen-grey,  until  the  snow  just  shows 
below  banks  of  clouds,  capping  their  summits  and 
casting  shade  far  down  their  flanks.  In  front  of 
me  is  a  distant  line  of  mud  walls,  and  on  a  small 
eminence  a  few  shattered  towers,  presumably  the 
"Elephant  Stables."  Further  off,  a  row  of  pop- 
lars extends  to  a  dust-coloured  village,  near  which 
other  trees  create  a  hazy  mass  of  greys  and  browns 
tipped  with  red.  Behind  all,  the  jagged  hills, 
dove-coloured  and  dappled  with  moving  shadows 
of  soft  grey   and  blue  cast  by  drifting  clouds. 


114     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

For  a  moment  the  sun  shines  brightly,  then  hesi- 
tates and  half  withdraws.  Not  a  human  being 
is  in  sight,  but  sheep  are  grazing  silently  not  far 
off.  The  only  sounds  the  ear  can  catch,  are  the 
rustling  of  wind  and  the  sweet  twittering  of  larks 
hidden  in  the  fields;  occasionally  the  sharp  neigh 
of  stallions  rings  out  above  the  music  of  wind  and 
bird.  Nothing  remains  but  walls  of  crumbled 
earth  and  a  half-tilled  plain;  yet  here  there  once 
stood  a  great  city  where  Firdawsi  lived  and  wrote 
deathless  verse.  Here  too  the  mystic,  Alghazali, 
evolved  his  subtle  meditation.  Their  eyes  must 
often  have  viewed  these  same  mountains,  to-day 
almost  unchanged ;  then,  as  now,  clouds  must  have 
banked  on  the  ridge  and  thrown  fleeting  shadows 
across  hills  and  plain.  No  trace  remains  of  poet 
or  metaphysician — nothing  but  desolation;  yet 
they  are  not  wholly  dead,  since  a  thousand  years 
after  their  mortal  flesh  passed  hence  to  corruption, 
their  names  still  live,  thrilling  a  traveller  come  from 
far  lands,  hidden  beyond  unsailed  seas  imtil  long 
centuries  after  they  went  down  to  death.  No! 
"oblivion  has  them  not";  yet  none  the  less  in 
spots  such  as  this,  the  thought  that  all  the  uni- 
verse is  simply  one  vast  cemetery,  and  history 
no  more  than  a  necrology,  strikes  us  even  more 
forcibly  than  ever  it  did  Taine  in  Pisa's  Campo 
Santo. 

Riding  across  to  the  mound  of  ruins,  that  was 
once  the  citadel  of  Tus,  I  find  a  moat  still  partially 
filled  with  water,  surrounding  an  embankment, 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  115 

which  a  second  moat  separates  from  the  eminence 
where  the  fortress  proper  used  to  stand, — now 
only  a  frittered  stretch  of  earth  and  wall  at  each 
corner  of  an  enclosure,  strewn  with  stone  and  only- 
accessible  where  a  causeway  joins  it  to  the  ram- 
part. After  gazing  for  a  few  moments,  half 
sadly,  across  the  waste  spread  before  me,  I  ride 
back  past  the  mausoleum  to  a  primitive  tea-house, 
where  I  am  now  lunching  on  sandwiches  and  a 

fragrant  apple  which  the  suwdr  gave  me 

Lying  here  on  a  mound  of  earth,  looking  out  over 
the  fields  of  Tus,  some  fantastic  chain  of  thought 
calls  to  mind  the  portrait  of  Goethe,  reclining  on 
classic  fragments  in  august  contemplation  of  the 
Roman  Campagna.  How  wonderful  life  must  be 
to  one  possessed  of  even  the  hundredth  part  of  his 
genius  and  beauty,  above  all,  of  a  tithe  of  the 

serenity  he   finally   attained A  sudden 

cawing  sound,  as  hundreds  of  crows  fly  past,  rising 
and  falling  like  an  evil  grain  tossed  by  the  sowers. 
Far  away  the  only  visible  object  is  the  mausoleum, 
but  little  deeper  yellow  than  the  dusty  plain. 
The  clouds  have  settled,  half  hiding  the  hills — ■ 
now  a  solid  expanse  of  pale  blue  fading  into  vapour, 
that  in  spots  almost  touches  the  earth  with  its 
white  and  rainy  wisps.  Above  me  the  sun  still 
shines,  but  a  black  shadow  is  creeping  swiftly 
toward  me  across  the  barren  plain,  where  the 
swift- wheeling  crows  have  just  begun  to  settle  on 
what  once  was  Tus.  Wind  moving  and  the  twit- 
tering of  birds  weave  a  melodious  spell,  in  which 


ii6     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

peace  and  melancholy  are  so  closely  mingled  they 
can  hardly  be  distinguished. 

On  returning  I  find  a  crowd  outside  the  gates 
of  Mashhad,  grouped  beside  the  road  or  on  the 
muddy  talus,  waiting  to  see  some  notability  arrive 
from  Tihran.  The  effect  is  like  a  neglected  minia- 
ture painted  under  Shah  'Abbas,  with  all  its  beau- 
tiful colours  soiled  and  faded.  The  broad  avenue 
within  the  gates,  is  divided  in  two  by  a  slimy 
stream  of  brown-green  water.  Enormous  chindr 
■ — or  plane-trees — grow  on  the  banks,  with  large 
boughs  of  scaling  white,  from  whose  twigs  fuzzy 
brown  balls  still  dangle.  The  great  size  and  pic- 
turesquely contorted  limbs  of  these  trees  are  de- 
lightful ;  when  in  foliage  they  must  really  beautify 
this,  at  present,  very  sordid  street.  Shops  line 
both  sides,  built  like  all  Mashhad  with  dove- 
coloured  brick  and  plaster,  and  for  the  most  part 
of  one  storey.  Long  strips  of  cloth  in  dark  colours 
• — chiefly  blue — hang  from  trees  or  poles,  festoon- 
ing the  road  in  front  of  dye-shops.  Over-loaded 
mules  and  donkeys  trot  along  patiently,  and  a  few 
camels  amble  past.  Men  stroll  up  and  down; 
children  play  in  the  dirt;  women  hop  along  bird- 
fashion,  or  squat  by  the  walls  in  groups  of  three 
or  four,  with  their  face-bibs  conspicuous,  and  oc- 
casionally a  glassy  eye,  surrounded  by  yellow 
wrinkles,  visible  where  some  hag  is  so  old  she 
wears  no  veil,  merely  drawing  her  mantle  across 
the  face.  In  the  narrower  streets,  men  are  con- 
tinually popping  out  of  sight  down  rectangular 


ASKABAD  TO  MASHHAD  117 

openings  near  the  walls,  as  though  diving  into 
treasure-houses.  A  closer  inspection  proves  them 
to  be  merely  descending  narrow  stairs  to  fill  their 
vessels  with  fetid  water  from  small  tanks  at  the 
foot  of  each  flight. 


Ill 

MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN 


119 


Ill 

MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN 

February  28*.^ 
Last  night  by  invitation,  I  accompanied  the 
Consul  to  a  fancy-dress  ball,  given  by  the  Rus- 
sian officers  in  a  badminton-court  covered  with 
carpets.  It  seemed  a  strange  experience  in  so 
remote  a  spot,  but  was  rendered  pleasant  by 
the  courtesy  and  hospitality  of  our  hosts.  The 
Russian  Consul  is  a  very  tall  man,  looking  like 
a  portrait  by  El  Greco,  with  an  abnormally  long 
beard  that  falls  to  his  waist,  and  waves  every  time 
he  speaks,  in  a  manner  that  quite  hypnotised 
me.  Local  gossip  insists  that  when  travelling, 
it  is  wrapped  in  a  blue  satin  bag;  it  also  credits 
the  Consul  with  being  entirely  responsible  for  the 
bombardment  of  the  sacred  shrine Rus- 
sians— at  least  in  Asia — are  spy-mad.  As  soon  as 
I  had  been  presented,  the  Consul  put  me  through 
a  series  of  questions,  obviously  intended  to  dis- 
cover who  I  really  was,  and  for  what  hidden 
purpose  I  had  come  to  Mashhad.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  resist  a  malicious  impulse  to  talk  about 
an  imaginary  American  desire  to  find  outlets  for 

121 


122     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

superfluous  manufactures,  and  an  equally  imagi- 
nary American  interest  in  the  development  of 
Persia.  This  seemed  to  produce  its  effect,  for  I 
noted  that  each  strand  of  the  endless  beard 
quivered  with  more  than  its  wonted  wave.  As 
the  Russian  Vice-Consul  had  spent  the  greater 
part  of  his  time  at  dinner  the  night  before,  in 
what  he  considered  adroitly  concealed  endeavours 
to  "pump"  one  of  the  guests  about  me;  there  is  a 
probability  that  I  figure  as  a  highly  suspicious 
person  in  a  secret  report  forwarded  to  Imperial 
Government  at  St.  Petersburg. 

This  morning  the  sky  is  so  threatening  I  can 
hardly  make  up  my  mind  to  start  on  my  long  jour- 
ney, particularly  as  I  am  loath  to  leave  the  gracious 
hospitality  of  the  British  Consulate;  however, 
after  much  hesitation,  I  decide  to  do  so.  Since 
even  such  sorry  carriages  as  brought  me  from  Aska- 
bad,  are  scarce  and  cost  a  small  fortune  for  the 
trip  from  Mashhad  to  Tihran;  I  finally  hired  an 
extraordinary  old  waggon  rather  like  an  omnibus, 
with  springs  that  look  as  though  they  might  with- 
stand travel  on  what  Persians  call  roads.  The 
renting  of  these  vehicles  and  the  arrangements  for 
horses  are  vaguely  connected  with  Government; 
when  I  had  selected  my  ark,  and  recovered  from 
the  shock  which  the  price  fi.xed  by  official  tariff 
gave  me,  long  documents  in  fine  Persian  char- 
acters had  to  be  drawn  up,  and  duly  signed  by 
me  and  sealed  by  the  postal  authorities.  My 
ignorance  of  the  Pensian  language  obUged  me  to 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  123 

accept  the  worthless  word  of  Aghajan  in  regard 
to  the  nature  of  this  document;  so  I  sympathise 
with  those  who,  in  mediaeval  times,  travelled  with 
letters  they  could  not  read,  which  purported  to 
secure  them  preferment,  but  might,  on  delivery, 
prove  orders  to  slay  the  bearer.  This  mysterious 
agreement  was  of  course  only  delivered  into  my 
hands  when  I  had  acceded  to  the  official's  request 
for  a  gratification. — I  am  beginning  to  suspect 
that  in  Persia  the  Shah  himself  might  accept  a 
tip,  and  feel  certain  that  the  mutual  pursuit  of 
"presents"  will  in  time  establish  such  sympathy 
between  the  Persians  and  their  Russian  suzerains 
as  should  annihilate  all  animosities. 

The  spectacular  conveyance  that  is  to  carry 
me  six  hundred  miles  across  Khurasan  to  the 
capital  of  Persia,  still  shows  a  few  signs  of  its 
quondam  coat  of  paint.  It  has  a  long  bench 
running  the  length  of  each  side,  three  windows  on 
a  side,  and  a  roof  equipped  with  a  gallery  for 
luggage.  The  sashes,  which  rattle  in  the  warped 
frames,  are  guiltless  of  glass,  so  the  vehicle  is  open 
to  wind  and  rain.  On  hiring  it,  I  stipulated  that 
it  should  be  washed,  after  removing  several  inches 
of  dried  mud,  and  also  be  furnished  with  some 
means  of  keeping  out  rain.  On  arriving  this 
morning,  it  was  resplendent  with  two  pieces  of 
striped  red  muslin  nailed  down  over  all  the  win- 
dows, so  that  air  and  outlook  could  only  be  had 
through  the  door.  As  I  finally  managed  to  have 
these  curtains  rolled  up,  the  carriage  is  now  less 


124     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

like  a  prison -van.  It  takes  a  long  while  to  bring 
my  luggage  out,  dispose  it  on  the  roof,  cover  it  in 
against  rain,  and  rope  it  in  place.  My  expe- 
rienced guide  is  naturally  incapable  of  doing  this, 
all  the  work  being  done  by  my  invaluable  Said. 
By  the  time  we  lumber  away  from  the  gates  of 
the  hospitable  Consulate,  it  is  eight  o'clock;  for, 
in  this  country,  the  traveller  rises  before  dawn 
to  await  the  pleasure  of  his  drivers  as  meekly  as 
he  is  able.  The  benches  are  covered  with  seats 
of  a  most  superior  red  velvet,  and  I  have  had  extra 
cushions  made  in  the  bazar,  so  it  is  possible  to  lie 
comfortably  stretched  at  half  length,  as  we  rumble 
along  like  gypsies  in  their  cart. 

A  last  view  of  Mashhad,  the  turquoise  dome  of 
the  mosque  and  the  gilded  cupola  of  the  shrine 
with  its  minarets,  visible  above  the  clay  walls  and 
crumbled  towers  surrounding  the  town;  then  the 
road  begins  to  rise  more  and  more  steeply,  up 
the  last  spur  of  the  range  we  skirted  on  the  way 
from  Shimran.  After  climbing  eight  hundred 
feet  above  Mashhad  our  troubles  begin,  when  at 
eleven  o'clock  the  carriage  sticks  in  the  mud  near 
the  top  of  a  steep  hill,  or — to  be  accurate — the 
horses  refuse  to  drag  it  further.  They  are  har- 
nessed in  an  idiotic  manner  which  prevents  all  four 
pulling  at  once;  they  also  kick  violently  when 
whipped,  but  refuse  to  work.  A  number  of  passers- 
by  decline  to  lend  a  hand  even  when  offered  money ; 
a  feeble  old  man  is  the  only  one  eager  to  help. 
The  driver  dances  about  like  a  hundred-limbed 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  125 

demon,  shouting,  beating  his  horses,  and  jerking 
their  bridles;  Said  and  Aghajan — the  latter  very 
feebly — tug  at  the  rear  wheels;  but  all  is  of  no 
avail.  Finally  some  men  willing  to  be  of  service, 
come  in  sight  and,  after  unloading  the  luggage, 
carry  it  to  the  top  of  the  hill.  The  horses — really 
quite  able  beasts — then  consent  to  budge,  and  at 
last  reach  the  top.  When  the  kit  has  been  roped 
on  the  roof  once  more,  and  we  have  gone  a  scant 
half-mile,  the  carriage  proceeds  to  stick  fast  on 
another  hill !  After  a  series  of  struggles,  the  driver 
jumps  on  one  of  the  animals  and  drives  off  to  the 
relay  in  search  of  extra  horses.  To  pass  the  time, 
I  lunch  in  the  carriage,  and  then  sit  on  a  rock  by 
the  roadside,  looking  down  the  valley  and  reading 
Morier's  inimitable  tale,  Ilaji  Baba  of  Ispahan. 
The  nature  and  customs  of  the  Persians  seem 
unchanged  since  the  days  when  the  brilliant 
Englishman  wrote  his  great  picaresque  novel ;  the 
only  difference  is  that  the  picturesque  has  now 
disappeared.  The  delights  of  Haji  Baba  beguile 
the  time,  until  the  coachman  returns  with  two 
new  horses  and  a  diminutive  driver,  whose  enor- 
mous bonnet  of  shaggy  fur  makes  him  look  like 
a  Fiji  Islander.  After  changing  two  horses  and 
unsuccessfully  attempting  to  start,  I  insist,  much 
against  the  drivers'  will,  that  a  fifth  horse  shall 
be  harnessed  to  the  pole  in  front  of  the  others. 
Despite  a  laying  on  of  whips,  and  a  succession  of 
yells  from  the  drivers  worthy  of  a  band  of  canni- 
bals,  the  carriage  remains  steadfast,  while  the 


126     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

lead-horse  nearly  kicks  the  others — not  to  mention 
the  men — into  pieces.  I  am  therefore  reluctantly 
forced  to  let  them  work  with  only  four  horses  in 
their  own  foolish  fashion;  after  a  long  struggle 
they  drag  the  old  omnibus  out  of  the  ruts,  only  to 
stick  fast  a  third  time  at  two  o'clock.  The  view 
of  the  hill-slopes  sinking  down  to  the  plain  dappled 
with  cloud  shadows,  has  no  interest  for  me  now, 
and  my  irritation  is  intense.  However,  we  succeed 
in  extricating  ourselves,  and  at  last  reach  the 
relay. 

As  there  is  a  sharp  ascent  immediately  ahead,  I 
insist  on  being  given  the  six  horses  which  I  rightly 
maintained  were  necessary  on  leaving  this  morn- 
ing. We  quickly  climb  to  some  seventeen  hundred 
feet  above  Mashhad,  then — after  alternately  de- 
scending and  rising  through  wild  and  barren 
country — reach  a  crest  whence  a  great  plain  is 
visible,  stretching  away  to  snow  mountains.  The 
road  pitches  down  suddenly,  bringing  us  to  Sha- 
rlfabad  about  five  o'clock.  I  was  told  that  there 
were  decent  caravanserais  on  this  route,  but  find 
a  vile  place  here.  A  sombre  passage,  ankle-deep 
with  red  mud,  leads  to  a  mucky  court  where  a 
few  poplars  are  growing.  On  one  side  is  a  series 
of  small  rooms — the  walls  black  with  smoke, 
the  wall-niches  filled  with  cigarette  ashes,  burnt 
matches,  and  other  oddments,  and  the  floors 
covered  by  rugs  shiny  with  the  grease  and  filth 
of  generations.  Of  course  there  is  absolutely 
no  furniture  in  any  caravanserai  in  Persia;  the 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  127 

traveller  must  carry  everything  he  needs  with 
him.  Luckily  I  had  a  foreboding  of  conditions 
before  I  started;  but  even  so,  have  not  half  the 
things  I  require.  To  add  to  the  charms  of  my 
dwelling,  the  other  side  of  the  court  is  occupied 
by  natives,  whose  habits  I  shall  leave  to  the  im- 
agination. 

March  i^.* 
"Philanimaly"  appears  to  be  as  unwise  as 
philanthropy  in  these  parts.  Last  night  the  glitter 
of  a  cat's  green  eyes  remained  fixed  at  a  crack  in 
my  tumble-down  doors,  until  I  politely  invited 
her  in  and  gave  her  scraps  from  what  passed  for  a 
dinner.  She  has  most  felinely  repaid  me  by  steal- 
ing to-day's  lunch!  Aghajan  secured  a  great 
prize  in  the  shape  of  a  miniature  leg  of  mutton, 
which  when  cooked  was  placed  for  safety  on  a 
high  ledge  above  the  fire-place  in  Said's  room, 
whence  the  truly  Persian  pussy  carried  it  off  this 
morning.  Said  has  only  just  discovered  the  theft 
and  come  to  tell  me  of  it.  His  usually  rather  im- 
passive face  is  a  study  fit  for  a  painter.  How  the 
cat  managed  to  get  a  piece  of  meat  as  large  as 
herself  out  into  the  court  and  over  a  wall  eight  or 
ten  feet  high,  is  so  much  beyond  me,  I  cannot 
really  begrudge  her  the  prize.  When  I  leave,  she 
is  seated  on  the  wall  above  the  courtyard  door, 
her  paws  demurely  folded  under  her,  smiling  like 
Alice's  Cheshire  Cat — a  picture  of  silent  triumph. 
Beyond    Sharlfabad    the   road   rises   abruptly; 


128      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

but  six  horses  and  a  tolerably  intelligent  driver 
prevent  a  repetition  of  yesterday's  happenings. 
The  sun  is  warm  and  bright.  At  the  first  relay 
there  is  one  of  the  ancient  fortified  caravanserais, 
probably  built  under  the  magnificent  Shah  'Abbas, 
who  caused  them  to  be  erected  along  the  principal 
routes  of  trade; — a  large  brick  building  around  a 
court,  with  a  curiously  vaulted  chamber  that  must 
have  been  used  as  a  stable.  From  here  the  road 
ascends  sharply  through  a  cleft  in  the  clay  hills, 
only  to  descend  once  more  to  the  plain,  which  now 
widens  out  until — as  we  skirt  the  northern  range — 
the  mountains  on  the  other  side  seem  remote  and 
faintly  blue-white  against  the  sky,  where  the  wind 
is  shepherding  round  pearly  clouds.  These  moun- 
tains rise  abruptly  from  the  plain,  apparently 
clutching  it  with  paw-like  formations.  The  lower 
slopes,  devoid  of  vegetation  and  ribbed  like  sand- 
dunes,  are  metallic,  ranging  from  grey  through 
brown  to  greenish  yellow,  with  here  and  there 
sanguine  spurs.  Higher  up,  the  snow  lies  like  a 
white  mantle  flung  across  the  summits.  Banks 
of  cloud  rest  on  the  peaks  or  drift  slowly  past, 
hiding  the  sun  at  intervals,  and  casting  huge 
shadows  that  wander  solemnly  across  the  plain. 
Villages  are  visible  here  and  there;  often  perched 
on  top  of  a  foot-hill,  but  always  fortified  by  walls 
and  towers.  Men  are  tillmg  the  ground  with 
primitive  wooden  ploughs,  which — I  am  sure — 
differ  but  little  from  those  in  use  when  Darius 
fled  the  triumph  of  Iskandar, 


MASHHAD  TO  TlHRAN  I2g 

About  three  o'clock  Qadamgah  comes  into 
sight;  a  spot  renowned  because  the  Imam  Rida 
here  met  a  stone,  which  rolled  out  from  the  pre- 
cincts of  the  fire- worshippers,  beseeching  him  to 
free  it  from  the  agonies  of  the  damned.  The 
saint  obligingly  stepped  upon  it;  legend  does  not 
relate  whether  or  not  this  solaced  the  soul-stone, 
but  does  affirm  that  the  sacred  foot-prints  re- 
mained indelible,  and  that — when  the  relic  had 
in  after  years  been  lost —  the  Imam  informed 
Shah  'Abbas  of  its  whereabouts  in  a  vision.  Such 
interruptions  to  the  eternal  beatitude  of  Paradise, 
arising  from  terrestial  solicitude,  must  be  trying 
even  to  saints,  and  were  perhaps  devised  to  keep 
them  in  training.  According  to  Shi'ite  tradition, 
this  same  Imam  is  still  obliged  to  travel  to  Qum 
by  air  every  Thursday,  in  order  to  spend  the  day 

with  his   beatified   sister,   Fatima The 

dome  which  Shah  'Abbas  kindly  built  over  the 
recovered  relic  is  the  first  thing  to  catch  the  eye. 
The  town  is  situated  on  the  two  low  hills  of  buff- 
coloured  earth,  which  enclose  a  narrow  valley 
running  back  toward  the  mountains.  On  the 
easternmost  and  ruddier  of  the  two,  nothing  is 
visible  except  the  jagged  remains  of  a  shattered 
tower  standing  at  each  comer.  The  other  hill 
is  surmounted  by  a  town,  fortified  with  walls  and 
swelling  towers  of  sun-dried  clay,  the  same  colour 
as  the  hillside ;  it  looks  like  a  turreted  crown  on  the 
brow  of  Cybele.  Little  houses  of  mud  crowd  down 
the  lower  slopes  of  both  hills,  and  across  the  valley- 

9 


130     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

mouth.  A  snow-peak  serenely  rises  above  the 
twin  hills,  dominating  the  entire  scene  with  its 
placid  grandeur.  To  right  and  left,  the  snowy 
outlines  of  other  mountains  sweep  away. 

The  mosque  is  built  on  level  ground  in  front  of 
the  valley  inside  an  enclosure,  above  whose  sombre 
boughs  the  blue  dome  glitters  with  reflected  light. 
To  the  left  a  fawn-coloured  portal  stands  out 
against  the  green-white  limbs  of  a  lofty  chinar 
tree.  A  hush  overhangs  the  scene,  only  broken 
by  the  caw  of  circling  crows  and  the  cries  of  chil- 
dren playing  far  off  by  the  hill-top  walls.  Going 
nearer,  I  slip  through  a  postern  into  the  walled 
garden  around  the  mosque,  half  afraid  lest  I  offend 
and  be  ejected;  but  no  one  is  in  sight.  In 
the  centre  is  an  octagonal  building  encrusted  with 
tiles — mainly  blue.  A  circular  drum  supports  a 
dome  nobly  shaped;  its  turquoise-coloured  tiling 
is  patterned  with  twisted  lines  of  white,  and  dia- 
monds of  mingled  black,  white,  and  yellow.  A 
long  tuft  of  greyish  grass  grows  near  the  top — like 
plumes  on  a  helmet.  Everywhere  lofty  pines 
spread  their  long  boughs  above  shaggy  trunks 
slanting  eastward.  These  rugged  trees  are  said 
to  have  been  brought  from  the  far-off  Himalayas 
by  pilgrims,  four  centuries  since.  Chinar  trees 
mingle  their  scaling  limbs  with  the  pines,  and 
shrubs — now  bare — abound.  Down  the  centre 
of  the  brick  pathway  in  front  of  the  mosque,  a 
stream  of  water  runs  through  a  channel,  until  it 
leaps  to  a  lower  terrace,  passes  through  a  large 


/ 


The  Mosque  of  Qadamgah 


2?^***M*: 


*     % 


Qadamgah 


MLjm 


The  Dyers'  Gate,  Nishapur 


Entrance  to  the  Governor's  House,  Nishapur 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  131 

basin,  and  leaves  the  enclosure.  Looking  upward, 
the  snow  mountains  seem  to  peer  across  the  plain 
through  the  rustling  pines,  while  the  walled  village 
looks  directly  down  from  the  hills.  The  sun  is 
bright  but  languid,  and  peace  is  everywhere — bom 
of  soughing  wind,  the  music  of  running  water, 
and  the  distant  sound  of  birds  calling  in  cadence: 
"Sweet,  sweet,  sweet."  It  is  my  first  view  of  a 
Persian  garden,  amid  whose  mingled  neglect  and 
care  I  would  lief  linger. 

Outside  the  entrance  is  a  broad  terrace,  below 
which  the  ground  descends  in  a  series  of  terraces, 
where  the  water  runs  in  channels  and  through 
basins.  On  a  small  platform  beside  the  largest 
of  these,  two  immense  chindrs  stand  as  if  guarding 
the  portal. 

There  is  the  usual  excitement  about  horses  and 
harness,  producing  the  usual  delay.  We  finally 
start,  with  an  extra  horse  tied  behind  in  case  of 
need,  and  an  extra  driver  escorting  us  on  horseback. 
The  extra  horse  soon  breaks  loose  and  gallops 
homeward ;  he  has  to  be  pursued  and  brought  back 

— too  fatigued  to  be  of  any  use As  the 

sun  begins  to  sink,  two  horsemen  ride  furiously 
toward  us,  making  signs.  Remembering  stories 
of  attacks  along  this  road,  Said  and  I  have  our 
pistols  ready ;  but  they  prove  to  be  a  peaceful  escort 
sent  to  meet  me  by  the  Governor  of  NishapOr,  on 
receipt  of  a  letter  from  his  uncle,  the  Governor  of 
Mashhad.  They  gallop  along  beside  or  before 
us,  whirHng  their  guns  in  a  rude  fantasia. 


132     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

The  sun  having  dipped  behind  the  hills,  the 
snow  mountains  begin  to  flush  like  roses,  then 
gradually  acquire  a  glaze  of  lavender  that  pales 
with  the  waning  light.  The  walls  of  Nishapur 
soon  come  into  sight:  high  battlements  of  dried 
earth  now  empurpled  by  the  sunset.  On  reaching 
the  city,  we  drive  round  the  walls  and  towers, 
coldly  radiant  in  this  purple  light,  beetling  above 
us  across  an  empty  moat,  and  enter  the  Dyer's 
Gate.  At  the  post-house,  I  find  it  is  so  late  the 
Governor's  servant  thought  I  was  not  coming  and 
went  away  a  few  moments  ago,  after  leaving  a 
message.  I  therefore  mount  a  horse  belonging 
to  one  of  the  escort,  and  at  nightfall  ride  as  best 
I  can  on  a  Persian  saddle,  w^hip  in  hand,  through 
the  bazars  of  Nishapur.  On  reaching  the  out- 
skirts of  the  towTi,  we  enter  a  poplar  alley,  above 
whose  feathery  tops : 

"Yon  rising  Moon  that  looks  for  us  again," 

swings  up  the  skj'-,  still  lucent  with  the  last  glow 
of  expiring  day.  The  lane  is  blocked  by  the  dark 
outhne  of  a  large  house.  At  the  gateway  a  servant 
is  waiting,  but  neither  much  calling  nor  loud 
knocking  at  the  barred  door  brings  anyone  to 
open  for  us.  Here  I  am  in  'Umar's  city,  stand- 
ing between  day  and  night  amid  the  now  nearly 
gathered  darkness,  watching  how: 

"The  little  Moon  look'd  in  that  all  were  seeking;" 
and  minded  to  cry  out — if  only  I  knew  Persian : 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  133 

"...  Open  then  the  Door! 
You  know  how  little  while  we  have  to  stay, 
And,  once  departed,  may  return  no  more." 

Finally  footsteps  ring  out  through  a  paved 
passageway,  and  the  great  doors  swing  open. 
After  walking  through  the  gate  and  up  a  flight  of 
brick  stairs,  I  find  myself  on  a  terrace  overlooking 
a  garden  filled  with  what  appear  to  be  the  ghosts 
of  poplar  trees,  illumined  by  a  moon  which  forces 
me  to  muse  with  an  appositeness  almost  startling : — • 

"How  oft  hereafter  will  she  wax  and  wane; 
How  oft  hereafter  rising  look  for  us 
Through  this  same  Garden — and  for  one  in  vain!" 


March  2l<^ 
Last  night  I  was  ushered  into  a  large  room  over 
the  gateway,  with  fine  carpets  on  the  floor,  and 
on  a  long  table  in  the  centre.  A  number  of  quiet 
servants  made  the  fire  and  drew  the  curtains, 
whilst  Aghajan  went  off  to  the  post-house  to  fetch 
Said  and  what  luggage  I  needed.  About  an  hour 
later — after  his  visit  had  been  fore-annoiinced — 
the  Governor  arrived,  preceded  by  a  servant  carry- 
ing a  lighted  candle.  He  is  a  pleasant  and  ex- 
tremely courteous  young  man — I  should  think 
about  twenty-seven  years  old — who  speaks  French, 
but  with  much  difficulty.  He  immediately  enquired 
at  what  hour  I  should  like  to  dine;  it  was  then 
about  eight  and  I  very  hungry.     But,  remembering 


134     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

I  had  heard  that  Persians  dined  about  eleven 
o'clock  at  night,  I  only  ventured  say: — whenever 
his  servants  were  ready.  After  a  considerable 
time,  the  table  was  covered  with  a  great  number 
of  small  dishes :  raw  eggs,  small  cold  baked  potatoes, 
peeled  pomegranates,  nuts,  bread,  most — a  favour- 
ite Persian  dish  of  curds,  in  this  case  deliciously 
flavoured  with  an  herb  like  estragon;  and  many 
similar  appetizers.  These  I  imagined  to  be  hors- 
d'oeuvres,  but  when — after  eating  a  little  and  wait- 
ing a  long  while — nothing  else  was  brought,  I 
decided  that  this  was  dinner  and  fell  to  once  more. 
A  full  hour  passed  in  laborious  conversation;  the 
Governor  telling  me  how  unhappy  all  Persians 
were  on  account  of  the  interference  in  their  affairs 
of  the  Great  Powers,  and  more  particularly  of 
Russia;  and  also  how  he  longed  to  travel  outside 
his  own  country,  the  which  his  uncle — the  Gover- 
nor of  Mashhad  and  head  of  the  family — would 
not  permit.  About  this  there  was  something 
almost  pathetic,  as  his  face  wore  an  expression 
of  natural  intelligence  stupefied  by  inaction  and 
isolation.  His  hands  were  incessantly  busy  with 
one  of  those  strings  of  beads  which  Persians  carry, 
not  like  rosaries  for  religious  use,  but  merely  to 
occupy  the  hands.  At  first  I  addressed  him  as 
Votre  Excellence,  but  saw — when  he  wrote  his 
name  for  me — that  he  too  was  a  royal  descendant 
of  Path  'All  Shah;  whereupon  I  employed  Votre 
Altesse  so  emphatically  and  frequently,  no  irrita- 
tion— ^if  already  felt — could  remain.     To  my  dis- 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  135 

may,  the  servants  reappeared  at  eleven  o'clock 
and  cleared  the  table,  then  covered  it  with  a  linen 
cloth.  They  next  cut  the  flat  Persian  bread  into 
strips,  which  they  laid  along  the  edges  of  the  table; 
after  this  they  brought  in  enough  dinner  for  a 
regiment.  There  were  two  dishes  of  everything, 
one  for  the  Governor  and  one  for  me,  certainly 
forty  all  told;  enormous  platters  of  pilaw — the 
Persian  national  dish  of  rice — variously  prepared, 
a  kind  of  kidney  stew,  potato  cakes  fried  after 
being  dipped  in  egg  and  sprinkled  with  rice,  a 
stew  of  meat  and  spinach,  in  a  folded  flap  of  bread, 
more  spinach,  in  a  second,  bits  of  meat,  a  won- 
derful bowl  of  curds  and  parsley,  bowls  of  most, 
and  at  each  corner  of  the  table  chopped  parsley 
with  a  piece  of  butter  in  the  centre.  All  these 
and  many  more  were  placed  on  the  table  at  once, 
to  be  eaten  as  whim  suggested.  In  my  honour 
there  were  plates  and  forks,  a  highly  European 
innovation.  The  Governor  helped  himself  to 
the  dishes  before  him,  and  I — watching  with  the 
corner  of  an  anxious  eye — did  likewise,  manfully 
trying  to  forget  that  I  had  already  made  a  meal. 
The  Prophet's  inhibition  did  not  prevent  my  host 
from  drinking  some  excellent  Russian  cordials. 
The  servants  were  numerous  and  wonderfully 
silent,  but  our  dinner  was  accompanied  by  the 
howling  of  a  jackal  wandering  outside  Nishapur 
in  search  of  food.  It  was  past  midnight  when 
the  Governor  withdrew. 

This  morning  I  can  see  that  my  room  overlooks 


136      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

both  the  street  and  a  large  garden,  which  might — 
like  most  Persian  gardens — more  properly  be 
called  a  grove,  since  it  is  entirely  planted  with 
trees.  With  one  exception  the  windows  have 
solid  wooden  shutters,  so  that,  if  closed,  no  one 
can  see  out.  The  garden  is  only  visible  when  I 
step  out  on  the  terrace;  now  it  is  dreary  and  un- 
kempt, but  must — with  its  great  alleys — be  deli- 
cious in  spring  and  summer.  The  sun  is  shining 
brightly  when  I  ride  off  to  visit  the  Tomb  of  'Umar 
Khayyam.  The  Governor  has  sent  me  a  beauti- 
ful grey  stallion,  which  to  ride  is  a  pleasure;  and 
my  escort  of  five  is  led  by  the  chief-steward,  a 
wonderful  old  fellow  looking  as  though  he  had 
just  stepped  out  of  an  ancient  tale.  We  ride  the 
length  of  the  bazars, — where  my  escort  shoves 
mules  and  men  aside  to  let  me  pass,  and  where 
sun-rays  drop  to  the  ground  in  a  slanting  sheet 
striped  with  black  and  gold, — then  leave  the  city 
behind.  On  either  hand  of  the  plain,  snow-peaks 
shimmer  in  the  sun;  those  on  the  further  side 
with  bases  merged  in  mist,  until  the  summits  of 
faint  white  seem  to  float  above  the  horizon  like 
icebergs  seen  across  an  ocean.  Mounds  of  earth 
dot  the  plain, — all  that  is  left  of  the  various  cities 
built  successively,  only  to  be  razed  by  some  con- 
quering lord.  To  us  Nishapur  suggests  only  'Umar 
Khayyam,  but  to  Persians  his  name  means  little. 
He  was  an  orthodox  Sunnlte,  a  sect  the  Shi'ites 
hate  bitterly,  cursing  their  khalifs  to  this  day; 
and  was  in  Persian  but  a  mediocre  poet,  whose 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  137 

verses  at  least  one  educated  Persian  claims  to 
have  been  so  vastly  beautified  by  the  genius  of 
Fitzgerald,  as  scarcely  to  be  recognisable.  The 
city  has,  however,  been  the  dwelling  of  noted  men, 
among  them  several  of  those  enigmatic  Sufi  poets, 
whose  mystic  creed  finds  so  noble  an  expression 
in  the  lines  of  Jami  that  occupy  my  memory, 
riding  over  the  plain  toward  the  tomb  of  a  great 
Sufi— Faridu'd-Dln'  Attar: 

"O  Thou,  whose  memory  quickens  lovers'  souls, 
Whose  fount  of  joy  renews  the  lover's  tongue, 
Thy  shadow  falls  across  the  world,  and  they 
Bow  down  to  it ;  and  of  the  rich  in  beauty 
Thou  art  the  riches  that  make  lovers  mad. 
Not  till  Thy  secret  beauty  through  the  cheek 
Of  Laila  smite  does  she  inflame  Ma j nun. 
And  not  till  Thou  have  sugar'd  Shirin's  lip 
The  hearts  of  those  two  lovers  fill  with  blood. 
For  lov'd  and  lover  are  not  but  by  Thee, 
Nor  beauty;  mortal  beauty  but  the  veil 
Thy  heavenly  hides  behind,  and  from  itself 
Feeds,  and  our  hearts  yearn  after  as  a  bride 
That  glances  past  us  veil'd — but  even  so 
As  none  the  beauty  from  the  veil  may  know. 
How  long  wilt  Thou  continue  thus  the  world 
To  cozen  with  the  phantom  of  a  veil 
From  which  Thou  only  peepest? — Time  it  is 
To  unfold  Thy  perfect  beauty.     I  would  be 
Thy  lover,  and  Thine  only — I,  mine  eyes 
Seal'd  in  the  light  of  Thee  to  all  but  Thee, 
Yea,  in  the  revelation  of  Thyself 
Self -lost,  and  conscience-quit  of  good  and  evil. 


138      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

Thou  movest  under  all  the  forms  of  truth, 
Under  the  forms  of  all  created  things; 
Look  whence  I  will,  still  nothing  I  discern 
But  Thee  in  all  the  universe." 


The  tomb  of  the  famous  Sheykh  'Attar  lies  in 
a  barren  plain,  inside  an  enclosure  of  cream- 
coloured  brick;  a  small  octagonal  building  also  of 
brick,  surmounted  by  a  cupola.  It  contains  only 
a  vaulted  chamber,  in  whose  center  stands  a  white 
plaster-covered  block  with  a  beautifully  wrought 
inscription.  On  the  tomb  lies  a  loose  leaf  in- 
scribed with  verses  from  the  Qur'an.  Here  in  the 
midst  of  desolation,  is  the  abandoned  tomb  of 
him  who  filled  half  Asia  with  his  fame.  It  is 
curious  to  reflect  that  there  is  perhaps  truth  in  the 
tradition  which  relates  how  here  in  NishapCr  the 
aged  Sufi,  by  whose  forgotten  dust  I  am  standing, 
encountered  a  little  child,  Jalalu'd-Din  Rumi 
(afterwards  to  become  the  greatest  of  all  mystic 
poets)  and  gave  the  boy  a  copy  of  a  work  of 
his  own,  prophesying  that  Jalalu'd- Din's  celebrity 
would  later  arouse  the  world. 

Galloping  away  across  little  streams  and  dried 
fields,  we  reach  the  Mosque  of  Imam  Zada-i- 
Mahraq,  where  lies  what  once  was  'Umar.  At  the 
rear  of  a  walled  garden,  the  mosque  stands — its 
blue  dome  spangled  with  tricoloured  diamonds. 
An  avenue  of  narband  trees,  with  an  empty  tank  in 
the  centre,  leads  from  the  portal  to  a  broad  terrace 
in  front  of  the  mosque.     'Umar  is  buried  in  the 


A  Servant  with  the  Governor  of  Nishapur's  Falcon 


The  Governor  of  Nishapur's  Head-Servant 


Mosque  of  Imam  Zada-i-Mahruq,  Ntshapur 
IJmar  Khayyam  is  buried  in  the  central  niche  of  the  left  wing,  where  the  slab  stands 


The  Grave  of  '  Umar  Khayyam.  NishSpur 
The  black  object  on  the  slab  of  brick  and  plaster  is  a  dirty  brick  cast  by  a  passer-by 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  139 

centre  one  of  three  open  niches,  forming  the  left 
wing.  His  grave  is  marked  by  a  low  slab,  built 
like  the  niches  of  brick,  and  like  them  roughly 
coated  with  plaster  scaling  off  in  spots.  There  is 
no  inscription;  no  stone  bears  so  much  as  his 
name;  no  "  cypress-slender  minister  of  wine"  pours 
libations  to  his  thirsty  dust ;  no  roses  drop  on  his 
tomb,  where  in  place  of  a  bough  some  passer-by 
has  cast  a  dirty  brick.  The  walls  of  the  niche 
are  scrawled  over  with  drawings  and  verses — 
undoubtedly  ribald;  for  the  tendency  of  good-for- 
nothings  is  here  stimulated  by  the  tradition  that 
'Umar  was  not  a  strict  Muslim,  or  was  at  best 
but  an  orthodox  Sunnite.  His  burial-place  has 
therefore  always  been  treated  with  disrespect. 

Is  it  not  a  part  of  the  mockery  usually  meted 
out  by  that  master  ironist — fate,  that  he  who 
prayed  for  foliage  beside  his  grave,  should  lie  in 
a  sordid  niche  of  brick  and  plaster,  defiled  by 
inept  vulgarity?  Sitting  on  the  steps  beside 
'Umar's  tomb,  a  realisation  of  how  all  things  de- 
ride us,  and  a  consciousness  of  the  coarse  indiffer- 
ence of  mankind,  steal  over  me.  Before  me,  the 
neglected  garden  stretches,  its  bare  boughs  only 
interrupted  by  the  olive  globe  of  a  single  pine; 
far  away  over  the  tree-tops,  the  great  white  moun- 
tains are  sharply  outlined  against  a  sky  of  pale 
cobalt,  where  shreds  of  cloud  hang  motionless. 
These  noble  peaks  are  the  only  beautiful  thing 
there  is  to  see,  and  them  the  grave  of  'Umar  faces; 
so  at  least  he  is  spared  the  ugliness  of  burial  in 


I40     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

cities.     His  dust — now  mingled  with  the  general 
earth — looks  out  toward  that  sky, 

"Whereunder  crawling  coop'd  we  live  and  die," 

in  sight  of  the  white  majesty  of  hills,  over  which 
his  living  gaze  must  often  admiringly  have  wan- 
dered. A  green- turbaned  Persian  is  seated  on  the 
terrace-edge  watching  me,  whilst  two  men  are  at 
work  near  the  mosque  door,  and  the  cries  of  my 
escort  outside  the  walls,  ring  out  above  the  call 
of  birds.  In  spring  verdure  must  make  this  garden 
lovely;  but  cannot  even  then  grace  the  pencil- 
defiled  niche  which  shelters  the  poet  for  whom  we 
dreamed  an  alabaster  slab,  carved  over  with  fine 
Arabic  script : — a  grave  in  the  midst  of  grass  under 
swaying  rose-bushes,  in  a  garden  where  running 
water  makes  a  music  that  is  yet  a  silence,  so  a 
listening  ear  almost  perceives  the  sound  of  rose- 
leaves,  fluttering  down  to  touch  that  earth  in 
which  lies — enriching  their  roots — the  dust  of 
him  who  in  life  loved  them  so,  he  entwined  their 
name  in  his  verse — until  to-day  none  who  love 
them  can  dissociate  their  perfume  and  'Umar's- 
quatrains.  He  does  indeed  lie  by  a  garden-side, 
but  one  no  longer  "not  unfrequented";  perhaps 
in  summer  "the  blowing  rose"  grows  underneath 
the  then  leafy  trees,  and  a  stray  petal  may  drift 
over  the  terrace  wall,  settling  on  his  neglected 
tomb;  even  so  it  can  scarcely  atone  for  such 
unworthy     surroundings.      Here     poetry,    which 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  141 

sometimes  haunts  ruin  and  abandon,  can  only- 
droop  in  sight  of  this  sordid  wall. 

The  man  who  [whether  mystic  or  misbeliever] 
cried  centuries  ago — 

"...  My  buried  Ashes  such  a  snare 
Of  Vintage  shall  fling  up  into  the  Air 
As  not  a  True-believer  passing  by 
But  shall  be  overtaken  unaware;" 

lies  in  a  grave  where  the  only  green  thing  is  a  tiny 
weed,  which  I  pluck  from  a  crack  in  the  brick  wall 
beside  his  wordless  slab.  Is  there  not  perhaps 
a  yet  subtler  irony  in  the  fact  that  what  a  man 
longed  for  in  the  physical  world,  is  granted  him  in 
a  figurative  sense,  which,  however  noble,  is  still 
derisive?  'Umar's  bones  lie  without  bush  or  vine 
to  shade  them;  but  his  soul  has  flung  into  the 
world  "such  a  snare  of  vintage,"  as  has  caught 
and  curled  round  all  poetry's  true-believers;  and 
in  their  hearts  they  have  reared  over  his  memory 
shrines  where  roses  blossom,  so  fair  earth's  love- 
liest are  weeds  beside  them.  In  the  minds  of  men, 
"the  rose  of  his  remembrance"  knows  no  autumn, 
throughout  a  world  greater  than  any  'Umar  ever 
conceived  in  the  wildest  of  his  wine-flushed 
dreams.  So,  could  he  decide,  he  might  prefer  to 
the  letter  of  his  wish,  these  super-sensual  bowers 

where  his  undying  spirit  forever  wanders 

After  luncheon  the  Governor  pays  me  another 
visit,  taking  me  into  the  garden  for  a  walk  and 
tea.     He  is  a  lover  of  hawking  and  very  proud 


142     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

of  his  falcons.  In  response  to  my  enquiries  he 
sends  for  three  of  his  retainers,  who  appear — 
each  with  a  splendid  bird  of  prey  perched  on  his 
gloved  fist.  They  are  sinewy  birds;  lithe,  quiet, 
and  very  cruel-looking,  the  largest  of  the  three  with 
tiny  bells  about  his  legs  and  an  ornament  around 
his  neck. 

March  3'.'* 
We  finally  succeeded  in  leaving  Nishaptir  at 
eight  o'clock,  after  struggles  even  greater  than 
those  I  have  learned  to  think  unavoidable  in 
Persia.  Yesterday  the  Governor's  chief-steward 
would  not  permit  Aghajan  to  buy  anything  for 
a  lunch  to  be  carried  with  me,  insisting  that  he 
woiild  provide  all  I  needed.  As  the  men  had  re- 
ceived their  tips  last  night,  neither  servants  nor 
luncheon  appeared  this  morning.  After  waiting 
a  full  half-hour,  I  gave  it  up  and  started  off  on  foot 
to  overtake  Aghajan,  who  had  gone  ahead  to  the 
post-house  with  the  luggage.  On  arriving,  I 
found  him  seated  on  the  roof  of  the  omnibus 
contemplating  the  luggage ;  not  a  horse  was  visible, 
although — before  leaving  the  house — he  had  as- 
sured me  they  were  waiting.  So  I  scolded  him 
with  all  possible  asperity,  and  sent  him  back  to 
see  if  he  could  discover  my  Tantalian  luncheon. 
As  no  one  showed  any  signs  of  bringing  out  the 
horses,  the  usually  quiet  Said  at  last  grew  angry 
enough  to  speak  to  the  driver  in  French,  and  make 
signs  to  him  to  fetch  the  horses.     This  producing 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  143 

no  effect,  I  decided  to  try  the  methods  I  had  often 
heard  were  necessary  in  the  East.  First  I  pushed 
one  of  the  drivers  violently  toward  the  stable ;  then 
— this  being  ineffectual — seized  him  by  the  scruff  of 
the  neck,  shook  him  soundly,  and  flung  him  toward 
the  door.  Still  no  result;  so  I  proceeded  to  ad- 
minister two  vigorous  kicks  to  that  portion  of  the 
anatomy  provided  by  nature  for  the  purpose. 
About  this  time  another  driver  brought  out  the 
horses,  and  Aghajan  slunk  back  without  the  lunch. 
We  then  started,  and — after  immediately  break- 
ing a  whiffietree — finally  succeeded  in  getting 
under  way. 

The  horses  in  Persia  are  wretched  beyond  words 
to  describe;  poor  tired  beasts,  covered  with  galls 
and  often  blind  in  one  eye,  whose  tortured  exist- 
ence makes  travel  unendurable.  The  traveller 
is  impotent  to  alleviate  their  suffering;  if  he  will 
not  start  with  them,  he  has  to  wait  hours,  only 
to  watch  the  next  carriage  take  the  poor  animal 
his  pity  has  refused.  Neither  words  nor  example 
can  awake  humanity  in  owners  and  drivers.  Once 
when  I  discovered,  between  relays,  that  the  collar 
of  one  of  the  team  was  pressing  the  skin  back  from 
an  immense  wound  in  rolls, — the  driver  replied 
to  my  angry  remonstrance,  that  it  was  all  right 
inasmuch  as  the  horse  was  in  that  condition  before 
we  started!  The  harness  is  an  inconceivable 
collection  of  frayed  rope  and  rotten  bits  of  leather, 
which  falls  apart  and  has  to  be  tied  up  continually. 
The  drivers — about  the  most  debased  specimens 


144     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULP 

I  have  ever  beheld — have  no  idea  of  harnessing 
their  horses  in  such  a  way  as  to  get  the  most  use 
from  them;  and  can  only  make  the  poor  jades 
move  at  all  by  a  ceaseless  whipping  and  yelling, 
which  sickens  the  traveller.  Even  when  they 
can  be  persuaded  to  take  extra  horses,  in  view 
of  the  impossible  condition  of  the  roads,  nothing 
can  make  them  use  all  the  horses  at  once.  They 
drive  four  of  them  abreast,  as  hard  and  long  as 
possible,  while  a  second  driver  gallops  beside 
the  carriage  on  the  extra  horse;  then  half  way  up 
a  steep  hill,  when  the  team  is  quite  exhausted, 
they  harness  the  fifth  horse  beside  the  others, 
where  he  is  of  small  use. 

Before  leaving  NishapGr  the  Governor  offered 
me  an  escort,  which  I  declined  as  it  is  unneces- 
sary on  this  part  of  the  road,  and  only  a  nuisance. 
Nevertheless  some  two  hours  after  leaving,  a 
solitary  suwdr  overtakes  us,  and  two  more  fall 
in  at  the  second  relay.  The  road  grows  steadily 
worse.  Ahead  of  us  is  a  muddy  stream  with  an 
abrupt  bank  on  either  side,  bordered  by  a  bog  in 
which  the  driver  sinks  up  to  his  knees.  It  looks 
as  though  the  carriage  must  stick  fast  in  the 
middle;  but  after  we  have  all  got  out,  the  coach- 
man manages  to  take  it  across  safely — while  I 
watch  with  my  heart  in  my  mouth.  He  then 
leads  the  horses  back  for  us  to  ride  across,  and — 
after  rehamessing — starts  on  once  more.  The 
day  is  still  overcast  and  the  scenery  desolate; 
a  morose  and  barren  expanse  of  greenish  plain, 


View  from  the  Grave  of  '  Ulnar  Khayyam,  Nishapur 
A  garden-side  no  longer  "  not  unfrequented  " 


Where  '  Umar  Khayyam  is  Buried 
The  Mosque  of  Imam  Zada-i-Mahruq,  Nishapur 


A  Road  in  Khurasan 
The  post-master's  carriage  stuck  in  a  foot  of  mud 


,53a 


What  Happens  to  a  Carriage  when  the  Horses  Try  to  Drag  it  out  of  the  Mud 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  145 

strewn  with  boulders  and  dotted  with  dried  shrubs. 
In  the  distance  it  turns  dull  purple,  stretching 
before  us — a  waveless  sea  from  which  a  long  ridge 
of  olive-black  emerges  like  a  dinosaur's  back. 
Far  away  the  light  filters  through  a  grey  pall, 
falling  on  snow  mountains  whose  ghastly  pallor 
only  intensifies  the  dreariness.  All  day  we  ad- 
vance slowly  through  this  depressing  country, 
which  recalls  all  the  forlorn  wastes  that  writers 
ever  described.  About  five  o'clock,  when  we  are 
just  ending  our  last  stage,  another  suwdr  gallops 
up;  this  seems  to  me  a  little  too  much,  so  I  shall 
cut  his  tip  to  the  vanishing  point. 

We  have  now  reached  Ribat-i-Za'faranI — the 
Saffron  Guardhouse;  so-called  from  the  colour  of 
the  great  caravanserai  built  under  Shah  'Abbas; 
I  cannot,  however,  see  that  the  brick  differs  from 
that  in  the  other  serais  dotted  along  the  road. 
The  old  caravanserai  is  more  or  less  abandoned — 
too  filthy  even  for  Persians,  so  I  am  lodged  in  a 
smaller  modem  building.  In  a  comer  of  the 
courtyard  a  woman  is  baking  bread,  that  is  to 
say  laying  flaps  of  dough  on  the  inner  side  of 
an  immense  earthen  jar  surrounded  by  a  rough 
furnace.  A  friendly  donkey  is  watching  the 
proceedings.  A  little  way  off,  is  a  curious  conical 
building  made  of  clay  in  huge  steps,  so  that  it  looks 
like  a  magnified  bee-hive.  By  appearances  it  ought 
to  be  a  mausoleum,  but  on  inspection  proves  a 
receptacle  for  storing  frozen  snow  brought  from 
the  mountains. 


146     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

March  4*^ 
A  disagreeable  day,  with  a  fine  drizzle  that 
turns  to  rain  shortly  after  leaving.  About  eleven 
o'clock  Sabzawar  comes  into  sight;  a  large  town 
with  walls,  above  which  a  few  tree-tops  show, 
preceded  by  a  collection  of  mud  hovels  and  a 
number  of  small  mosque-like  buildings  of  brick, 
half  in  ruin.  After  entering  the  gate,  we  drive 
to  the  post-house  on  the  other  side  of  the  city, 
through  the  bazars — a  series  of  high  arcades  of 
yellow  brick,  each  with  an  opening  for  light  in 
the  centre.  They  are  cleaner  than  any  I  have  seen 
in  Persia,  and  the  lofty  proportions  of  their  almost 
Gothic  arches,  lend  them  a  certain  elegance.  The 
wares  for  sale  are  of  course  largely  Russian,  but 
for  some  reason  look  less  trashy  than  usual ;  indeed 
the  whole  bazar  has  a  livelier  and  neater  air  than 
those  of  Mashhad  or  Nishapur,  yet  seems  more 
truly  Oriental.  There  are  no  costumes  to  compare 
with  the  brilliant  ones  of  Bukhara,  which  in  re- 
trospect seem  finer  than  they  did  in  reality.  Here 
the  prevailing  tone  is  a  ruddy  brown;  but  the 
vivid  greens,  so  frequently  worn  in  girdles  and  tur- 
bans, make  spots  of  beautiful  colour  which  liven 
the  scene.  One  man  has  a  ruby-coloured  turban, 
and  a  well-grown  boy,  sitting  in  front  of  a  shop 
at  stately  ease,  is  dressed  in  a  splendid  robe  of 
amethyst  velvet. 

The  rain  is  falling  fast,  spattering  through  the 
eyes  of  the  bazar  cupolas,  when  I  start  out  to  visit 
the  Governor  (a   son-in-law    and — I    believe — a 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  147 

nephew  of  the  Governor  of  Mashhad)  whom  I 
was  advised  to  see  in  regard  to  taking  an  armed 
escort  for  the  part  of  the  road  just  ahead  of  us. 
It  is  considered  dangerous  on  account  of  raids 
by  marauding  Turkomen,  whose  activities  Russia 
is  supposed  to  stimulate  in  order  to  secure  pretexts 
for  interference  in  Persia.  Turning  to  the  left 
of  the  main  bazars,  we  pass  through  a  short  street 
into  a  dilapidated  square,  dominated  by  the  ruins 
of  a  once  imposing  fortress  of  clay-brick,  whose 
walls  and  towers  have  crumbled,  until  it  looks 
not  unlike  the  ruins  of  a  m.ediaeval  castle  in  France. 
The  Governor's  house  is  reached  by  a  door  at  one 
side  of  this  square;  after  crossing  a  shabby  court 
and  climbing  a  narrow  twisting  staircase,  I  find  my- 
self in  a  sort  of  ante-chamber ;  after  a  few  moments 
I  am  ushered — under  a  lifted  curtain — into  a 
small  room  entirely  carpeted  with  rather  good 
rugs.  In  one  comer,  near  the  windows  occupying 
the  whole  of  one  side,  an  elderly  man  is  seated  on 
the  floor,  Persian  fashion,  on  his  heels.  A  very 
beautiful  small  carpet  is  hanging  on  the  wall 
behind  him;  in  front  of  him  the  floor  is  littered 
with  writing  materials  and  official  papers,  near 
which  an  elderly  man  with  a  dyed  red  beard  is 
sitting.  The  Governor  is  a  tall  elderly  man,  with 
long  features  and  a  two  days'  growth  of  grizzled 
beard.  In  addition  to  the  fiat  Persian  cap  and 
the  inevitable  European  frock-coat,  he  is  wearing 
a  brown  mantle  thrown  across  his  shoulders.  His 
appearance  and  manners  are  not  without  dignity. 


148     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

The  only  furniture  in  the  room  is  a  small  stove 
and  six  chairs  ranged  along  the  wall,  one  of  which 
is  advanced  for  my  use.  In  this  carpeted  room 
among  imshod  people,  I  find  our  dirty  custom  of 
wearing  muddy  boots  in  the  house  quite  embar- 
rassing. 

As  the  Governor  can  speak  only  three  or  four 
words  of  French,  I  am  forced  to  summon  Aghajan 
to  interpret.  We  then  go  through  the  process  of 
having  our  words  interpreted,  while  we  smile  and 
bow  to  each  other  like  a  pair  of  china  mandarins. 
It  appears  that  the  Governor  received  a  telegram 
from  the  British  Consul  announcing  my  arrival, 
but  took  an  Austrian  travelling  on  foot  for  me, 
and  gave  him  an  escort  of  two  suwdrs  this  morning. 
He  tells  me,  however,  that  for  persons  travelling 
post,  the  road  is  safe;  I  therefore  decline  his  offer 
of  a  guard,  but  accept  an  order  entitling  me  to 
demand  an  escort  wherever  I  think  fit.  He  invites 
me  to  stay  the  night  at  his  house ;  inasmuch  as  it  is 
only  noon  and  I  am  anxious  to  push  on,  I  decline 
his  invitation  with  thanks.  He  then  gives  me 
his  photograph  and  a  piece  of  needle-work  done 
by  one  of  his  family;  regretting  that,  as  he  was  not 
prepared  for  my  arrival,  he  cannot  offer  me  a  rug 
like  the  one  I  admired  behind  him.  His  manner 
is  so  kind  and  courteous  that  I  leave  with  a  most 
pleasant  impression. 

On  the  way  back  I  purchase  meat,  a  rare  article 
in  these  parts,  and  some  cakes  which — being  less 
oily  and  dirt-covered  than  usual — appear  edible. 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  149 

On  reaching  the  carriage,  I  am  forced  to  get  in 
it  to  eat  my  lunch,  since  there  is  nowhere  else 
to  sit.  I  am  soon  surrounded  by  interested  ob- 
servers, but  fortunately  have  begun  to  realise  that 
persons  who  wander  through  the  East,  must  ac- 
custom themselves  to  the  public  performance  of 
what  we  consider  private  occupations.  The  rain 
now  falls  steadily,  splashing  on  the  roof.  Aghajan 
is,  as  usual,  inefficient  as  a  baby  in  regard  to  get- 
ting the  drivers  ready,  proposing  to  await  their 
good  pleasure  in  starting.  He  has  no  initiative, 
and  accomplishes  nothing  unless  I  stand  by  curs- 
ing. Kind  words  and  encouragement  I  have  long 
realised  to  be  useless.  It  is  also  impossible  to 
extract  from  him  an  accurate  answer  to  any  ques- 
tion ;  as  I  am  entirely  dependent  on  him  for  infor- 
mation, his  shiftiness  is  maddening.  After  shaking 
him  up  as  much  as  I  can,  we  manage  to  start  about 
one  o'clock  with  the  same  four  horses  we  brought 
with  us,  there  being  no  others.  The  driver  who 
— it  transpires — has  only  been  five  days  on  the 
road,  is  a  poor  specimen  even  for  a  Persian. 

We  have  gone  but  a  few  hundred  yards  outside 
the  town,  when  the  harness  breaks  beyond  any 
possibility  of  the  usual  tying  up  with  string;  so 
the  driver  jumps  on  a  horse  and  rides  back  to 
town  for  repairs.  After  we  have  waited  in  the 
rain  for  a  half-hour,  he  reappears,  accompanied 
by  a  man  riding  one  horse  and  leading  another. 
He  is  tall  and  lantern- jawed,  about  as  evil-looking 
a  fellow  as  I  care  to  see.     At  first  Aghajan  says 


I50     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  man  has  brought  horses  of  his  own,  which  he 
wishes  to  rent ;  for  this  he  will  of  course  cheat  me 
outrageously,  but  the  road  being  very  bad,  I  am 
willing  to  submit  to  robbery  within  certain  limits. 
As  soon  as  I  tell  Aghajan  to  bargain  for  them,  he 
announces  that  they  do  not  belong  to  the  man, 
who — knowing  that  we  could  not  possibly  reach 
the  next  relay  to-night — has  brought  them  out 
merely  to  help  us  back  to  Sabzawar.  This  imme- 
diately arouses  both  Said's  and  my  suspicions,  as 
a  short  stay  in  this  country  suffices  to  make  one 
cynical;  but  it  is  impossible  to  discover  what  the 
man's  motives  really  are.  I  try  to  extract  in- 
fomiation  from  Aghajan,  in  order  to  decide  whether 
to  return  or  not;  this  of  course  proves  useless,  as 
the  only  coherent  statement  he  makes,  is  that  the 
driver — who  before  starting  said  we  could  easily 
reach  the  next  relay  by  dark — now  insists  it  can- 
not be  done  under  ten  or  twelve  hours ;  the  reason 
for  this,  impossible  to  elicit.  In  the  meanwhile 
the  new-comer  has  unharnessed  a  second  horse, 
and  interferes  every  time  I  order  a  question  put 
to  our  driver,  who  stands  about  doing  nothing. 
Gradually  it  leaks  out  that  he  is  insisting  our 
horses  and  driver  are  tired  and  hungry;  and  that 
we  have  no  right  to  take  the  horses.  This  shows 
that  he  is,  as  suspected,  trying  to  gain  some  end 
of  his  own.  What  it  may  be,  I  cannot  tell;  but 
— as  Said  says — it  is  evident  he  has  not  come 
"pour  lebien  de  Monsieur." 

Whilst  Said  and  I  are  standing  near  the  carriage, 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  151 

this  obnoxious  individual  jumps  on  the  box  beside 
Aghajan,  takes  the  reins,  turns  the  carriage  round, 
and  starts  the  two  horses  toward  Sabzawar.  This 
being  a  Httle  too  much,  I  decide  to  proceed  at  any- 
cost,  since  I  am  certain  that  some  ill  is  intended, 
and  will  not,  at  any  rate,  submit  to  such  high- 
handedness. I  shout  to  Aghajan  to  ask  the  man 
what  he  means  by  getting  on  the  carriage  without 
my  orders;  and  to  tell  him  to  turn  it  back  and 
harness  the  other  horses  immediately.  Like  the 
born  idiot  he  is,  Aghajan  jumps  down,  leaving  the 
man  alone  on  the  box;  whereupon  he  whips  up 
the  horses  and  starts  off  at  a  gallop,  which  looks 
at  though  I  should  never  see  carriage  or  luggage 
again.  Said  and  I  start  after  it  on  a  dead  run — 
— despite  long  coats — through  mud,  pools  of 
water,  and  heavy  rain,  shouting  furiously;  reach- 
ing it  first,  I  jump  in,  seize  my  pistol,  get  to  the 
horses'  heads,  and  level  it  at  the  man,  ordering 
Aghajan  to  tell  him  to  get  down  immediately  or 
I  will  shoot.  This'  he  does,  but  stands  about 
defiantly,  interfering  with  the  horses  our  dumb 
little  driver  now  brings  up.  Before  I  realise  what 
is  happening,  Said  seizes  the  brigand  by  the  throat, 
and  blacks  both  his  eyes  as  neatly  as  possible. 
(It  is  never  wise  to  threaten  me,  when  Said  is 
present.)  The  man  does  not  lift  a  finger  to  defend 
himself,  but  with  black  glances  pours  out  protesta- 
tions that  he  has  only  come  to  aid  us;  these  are 
eagerly  interpreted  by  my  trembling  guide.  In  the 
meantime  my  driver  calmly  proceeds  to  harness  the 


152      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

very  horses  the  other  man  had  said  did  not  belong 
to  the  post ;  while  this  is  going  on,  the  brigand  pulls 
up  his  blouse,  ostensibly  to  arrange  his  belt,  but 
really  to  let  me  see  a  huge  pistol  stuck  through 
two  rows  of  cartridges.  When  the  horses  are 
ready,  he  attempts  to  mount  the  box  in  the  driver's 
place;  probably  with  the  intention  of  attempting 
to  rob  us  in  a  lonely  spot,  or  perhaps  of  attacking 
Said  with  fists  and  pistol  when  out  of  sight  of  the 
city.  I  therefore  pull  my  revolver  out  again; 
levelling  it  first  at  our  driver,  then  at  the  other 
man,  I  order  the  one  to  drive,  and  the  other  to 
take  the  remaining  horses  back.  This  produces  the 
required  effect ;  but  when  the  driver  has  got  on  the 
carriage  and  started,  the  brigand  follows  us, 
leading  two  horses  and  yelling  lustily.  After 
crossing  a  stream  a  few  hundred  yards  ahead,  I 
decide  that  it  is  time  to  oblige  him  to  stop.  Halt- 
ing the  carriage,  I  aim  my  pistol  out  of  the  rear 
window,  and  tell  Aghajan  to  shout  to  the  man  that 
if  he  attempt  to  cross  the  stream,  I  shall  fire. 
Disobeying  my  orders  as  usual,  "  lilly-livered " 
Aghajan  jumps  down,  rushes  back,  and  begins 
talking  to  the  man  with  that  childish  air  which  in 
him  is  habitual.  As  I  do  not  wish  to  shoot  the 
cause  of  all  this  disturbance.  Said  and  I  decide 
that  if  he  stir,  we  shall  seize  him  from  behind  and 
throw  him  into  the  muddy  stream.  As  he  shows 
no  signs  of  advancing,  I  order  Aghajan  to  come 
back  and  start  the  carriage;  before  he  obeys,  I 
have  to  threaten  to  thrash  him  soundly.    Finally 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  153 

we  make  a  third  start, — I  hanging  out  of  the 
carriage  with  my  pistol  aimed  at  the  ominous 
individual,  who  remains  on  the  further  bank  until 
lost  to  sight.  What  his  plans  were,  I  shall  never 
know;  but  it  is  certain  that  he  intended  harm. 

It  is  nearly  three  o'clock  by  the  time  we  get 
under  way  in  heavy  rain,  crossing  the  plain  by  a 
road  that  is  nothing  more  than  a  broad  strip  of 
mud  full  of  pools  and  streams  of  water.  After  a 
little  the  Minar  of  Khusrawgird — all  that  is  left 
of  the  ancient  city — rises  from  the  waste;  a  deso- 
late tower  of  brick,  adding  one  more  touch  of  ruin 
to  the  dreary  outlook.  About  half  after  four,  we 
reach  a  particularly  nasty  caravanserai,  whose 
keeper  tries  to  persuade  me  to  halt.  The  im- 
possibility of  ascertaining  anything  accurate  about 
distances,  is  one  of  the  trials  of  travel  in  this 
country;  but  the  road  having  been  tolerable  so 
far,  and  this  place  supposedly  half  way  to  Rivand, 
which  I  wish  to  reach  to-night,  I  see  no  reason  for 
not  continuing. 

The  road  becomes  worse  and  worse,  finally 
losing  itself  in  trackless  mud,  diversified  by 
hummocks  and  gullies  worn  by  what  are  now 
small  torrents.  The  carriage  rocks  from  side  to 
side,  straining  fearfully.  The  plain  spreads  out  on 
all  hands  of  us — nothing  but  mud  and  sickly  green 
earth,  soaking  in  the  downpour,  while  far  away  a 
wavering  shroud  of  mist  closes  in.  In  the  fast- 
gathering  dark,  this  sodden  table-land  is  a  most 
repulsive    sight.      The   gullies   grow    deeper   and 


154     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

wider  as  the  mud  increases,  until  it  forms  a 
veritable  quagmire,  holding  as  in  a  clamp  the 
heavy  carriage.  The  horses  can  only  drag  it  a 
few  hundred  yards  at  a  time,  then  stop  to  rest — 
panting  loudly.  Every  few  moments  we  stick 
fast,  apparently  for  good.  It  is  now  raining  so 
hard  all  the  curtains  have  to  be  lowered;  we 
struggle  along  in  a  sort  of  swaying  tomb,  with  just 
enough  space  left  clear  in  the  door  to  see  the 
darkness  creeping  closer  and  closer  across  the 
dank  earth. 

A  sinking  dragging  sensation,  then  a  sudden 
jerk;  we  have  stuck  fast  beyond  the  possibility  of 
extricating  ourselves  unaided — up  to  the  axles  at 
the  edge  of  a  swirling  stream.  It  is  now  almost 
night,  and  I  can  see  no  way  of  finding  the  road 
(the  driver  of  course  has  no  lanterns)  even  if  we 
manage  to  free  the  carriage.  I  therefore  put  the 
coachman  on  a  horse  about  seven  o'clock,  and 
send  him  for  assistance  to  the  next  relay,  which  he 
says  is  only  distant  a  ''little  far sakh/'  This  I  do 
most  reluctantly,  since  it  is  quite  probable  that 
even  if  he  find  horses,  he  will  leave  us  here  all 
night,  rather  than  venture  out  into  the  storm  a 
second  time.  I  offer  him  and  anyone  he  may 
bring  back  large  tips,  if  they  get  us  out  of  our 
predicament;  then,  with  a  sinking  heart,  watch 
him  disappear  in  the  dark.  The  rain  has  stopped, 
and — there  being  a  moon  behind  the  clouds — 
the  plain  is  visible  by  a  ghastly  light  that  seems 
dead,  a  mere  ghost  of  light,  making  the  scene 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  155 

more  hideous  than  night  itself  could  ever  do. 
Here  -we  are !  stuck  fast  in  the  mud  by  night,  in  the 
midst  of  an  uninhabited  plain  in  the  wildest  part 
of  Persia,  with  three  horses  pawing  the  water  that 
runs  between  their  hoofs;  not  a  human  being 
within  miles,  and  Aghajan  no  more  to  be  relied 
on  than  a  puling  child.  Said  is  as  usual  splendid, 
keeping  a  level  head  and  a  cheerful  manner. 

About  eight  o'clock,  resolving  to  make  the  best 
of  bad  luck,  I  have  a  lighted  candle  fastened  to  the 
opposite  seat  by  its  own  grease,  and  start  to  dine 
on  some  of  the  food  fortunately  brought  with  us. 
I  am  just  thinking  that,  inasmuch  as  it  is  not  very 
cold,  a  night  spent  in  the  carriage  will  not  be 
unendurable; — when  a  raging  gale  springs  up  like 
a  flash,  and  drives  a  flood  of  rain  hissing  before  it. 
The  wind  clutches  the  flimsy  curtains  on  the  sides 
of  the  carriage,  tearing  at  them  tmtil  they  slat 
like  wet  sails.  The  candle  is  blowTi  out  by  the 
first  gust,  plunging  us  in  impenetrable  darkness. 
The  storm  is  so  fierce,  I  cannot  leave  even  Aghajan 
without  a  shelter,  and  have  to  bring  him  inside  the 
carriage.  It  is  soon  evident  that  unless  we  hold 
the  curtains  fast,  they  will  rip  themselves  free  and 
leave  us  without  any  protection  against  the  roaring 
elements.  Said  and  I  have  to  stand  on  each  side, 
with  our  arms  stretched  out  as  far  as  possible,  and 
hold  the  flapping  corners  of  the  muslin,- while 
Aghajan  looks  after  the  door-curtain.  Hours 
seem  to  crawl  by  as  we  crouch  in  cramped  posi- 
tions, clinging  to  the  wildly  shaking  curtains,  and 


156     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

listening  to  the  wind  shriek  and  bound  outside 
Hke  an  enraged  animal.  The  rain  gradually  begins 
to  trickle  in  through  chinks  and  soaked  surfaces. 
With  the  help  of  a  match,  I  make  out  that  it  is  a 
quarter  past  nine — two  hours  and  a  half  since  our 
driver  left;  trust  in  his  return  has  now  sunk  very 
low.  My  only  hope  is  that  he  will  be  afraid  lest  his 
horses  die  of  exposure,  and  he  have  to  take  the 
consequences.  Wind,  rain,  and  cold,  augment 
steadily.  Sitting  here  late  at  night,  caught  in  a 
bog  on  a  deserted  plain  in  a  far  country,  during  a 
storm  increasingly  furious,  and  with  small  pros- 
pect of  relief, — is,  I  am  free  to  confess,  the  most 
disagreeable  experience  travel  has  ever  brought 
me. 

The  wind  falls  slowly,  and  the  rain — that  has 
probably  soaked  through  the  covers  into  the 
luggage — ceases.  This  brings  some  alleviation  of 
our  plight,  and  a  return,  if  not  of  cheerfulness,  at 
least  of  resignation.  Said  gets  my  electric  pocket- 
lamp  out  of  my  valise,  so  that,  in  case  anyone 
pass,  we  can  see  who  it  is;  our  revolvers  have  long 
been  in  readiness,  since  this  part  of  the  country  is 
reputed  unsafe.  Aghajan  is  walking  about  beside 
the  now  restive  horses,  who  paw  and  plash  the 
running  water.  He  maintains  that  he  hears  people 
coming  toward  us;  as  before  we  stuck  fast,  he  also 
asserted  that  he  saw  Rivand  just  ahead  of  us, 
and  all  his  statements  are  unreliable, — his  words 
do  not  arouse  my  hopes.  W^hen  his  shouts  bring 
no  reply,  I  am  certain  he  is  wrong;  a  few  minutes 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  157 

later,  however,  his  call  is  answered.  This  is  the 
most  welcome  sound  I  have  ever  heard.  In  a  few 
minutes  our  driver  trots  into  sight,  accompanied 
by  three  extra  horses  and  another  man  intelligent 
enough  to  have  brought  a  spade  and  lantern. 

By  the  dim  light  of  my  electric  torch,  the  horses 
are  reharnessed  and  the  wheels  dug  free,  all  to  the 
accompaniment  of  loud  vociferation.  Precisely 
at  ten  o'clock,  the  carriage  is  pulled  out  with  wild 
shouts  to  encourage  the  horses,  who  dash  up  the 
opposite  side  of  the  gully.  I  think  a  prisoner 
newly  liberated  from  gaol,  could  scarcely  feel 
more  elation  than  I.  However,  our  troubles  are 
by  no  means  ended;  we  have  only  gone  a  short 
distance,  when  I  hear  an  extraordinary  swishing 
sound  as  the  carriage  halts;  on  looking  out,  I  find 
we  are  in  the  middle  of  a  wide  stream  skirling 
around  our  wheels.  It  looks  as  though  we  shall 
never  get  across;  motionless  in  this  dim  light,  the 
roar  of  water  breaking  the  desolate  silence,  is  most 
lugubrious.  We  manage  to  extricate  ourselves 
somehow,  and  advance  quite  well,  with  one  of  the 
men  riding  behind  us  and  driving  two  of  the  horses 
before  him, — since  no  power  on  earth  could  make 
these  Persian  drivers  harness  all  seven  horses. 
Said  has  just  remarked  that  the  road  is  im.proving, 
when  there  is  a  frightful  crash  as  the  carriage 
slides  to  one  side,  topples  over,  and  then  stops 
suddenly.  On  getting  out,  I  discover  it  has 
slipped  down  a  bank  the  rain  has  washed  in  the 
road,  and  is  now  resting  with  one  wheel  up  to  the 


158     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

hub  in  mud,  and  the  other  several  feet  higher  up 
on  the  declivity.  At  first  sight  the  front  axle  and 
spring  appear  to  be  broken;  but,  after  several 
agonizing  minutes,  it  turns  out  that  the  springs 
have  merely  been  tilted  forward  in  front  of  the 
axle-tree.  After  much  digging  and  pulling,  we  are 
able  to  proceed,  reaching  Rivand  a  little  before 
midnight. 

Having  been  told  that  this  was  a  good  place  to 
spend  the  night,  I  expected  a  fairly  decent  cara- 
vanserai— like  the  one  last  night :  but  find  only  mud 
hovels.  Crossing  a  manure  bog  and  stumbling 
up  a  narrow  flight  of  mud  stairs  outside  the  so- 
called  house;  I  discover  only  one  possible  room — 
in  which  the  proprietor  and  his  wife  were  asleep 
when  we  arrived.  I  can  only  hope  the  cold  may 
inhibit  the  activity  of  their  invisible  companions. 
In  this  room  I  have  to  lodge  Said  as  well  as  myself, 
while  the  luggage  is  piled  up  in  a  nearby  cave- 
room.  However,  this  place  seems  palatial,  when 
I  think  of  the  night  I  might  have  passed  on  the 
plain.  After  a  fire  has  been  lighted,  which  of 
course  fills  the  room  with  smoke — not  heat,  and 
my  blessed  samovar  has  produced  boiling  water 
to  make  a  cup  of  cocoa,  cheerfulness  returns. 
Said — whose  resourceful  disposition  has  been 
goaded  to  disgust  by  Aghajan's  soft  and  unreliable 
ways — contemptuously  christens  him  "I'artiste" 
on  account  of  his — let  us  call  them — imaginative 
statements.  He  has  just  gone  to  lecture  "  I'artiste  " 
in  the  hope  of  rousing  him  into  a  semblance  of 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  159 

manhood.  As  I  prepare  to  go  to  bed,  I  hear 
Said's  deep  voice  laying  down  the  law,  successfully 
I  trust. 

March  5*> 
I  was  waked  very  early  this  morning  by  the 
sound  of  voices  quarrelling  in  the  street  below,  to 
find  the  sun  struggling  out — a  most  welcome  sight. 
Aghajan  appears  to  have  been  electrified  by 
Said's  lecture  of  last  night;  he  is  bustling  about 
underneath  my  window,  having  the  carriage  roped 
up,  while  disputing  with  the  green- turbaned  head 
of  the  village.  It  seems  that  just  outside  the  wall 
there  is  a  piece  of  road,  which  last  night's  down- 
pour has  made  impassable.  Aghajan  has  actually 
sent  men  to  dig  a  way  through,  and  improve  it  as 
best  they  can.  Whilst  I  am  looking  out,  a  string 
of  donkeys  that  have  just  waded  through  this 
place,  comes  into  sight  coated  with  mud  half  way 
up  their  flanks.  The  carriage  having  been  straight- 
ened out  as  much  as  possible  and  loaded — the 
whole  village  watching  the  process — we  start  with 
four  horses  and  two  more  following,  escorted  by  the 
entire  male  population  from  old  men  to  toddlers. 
A  stone's  throw  beyond  the  last  hovel,  we  reach 
the  obstacle  at  a  spot  where  the  road  passes 
between  two  banks  upholding  the  wheat-fields  on 
either  side.  Last  night's  flood — following  several 
days  of  rain — has  turned  this  place  into  a  vast 
ditch,  filled  with  a  foot  or  two  of  soft  mud  covered 
by  water.    Here  and  there  a  few  men  are  digging 


i6o     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

mud  out  of  the  slough,  with  the  entire  village 
lined  up  on  the  banks,  watching. 

While  we  are  waiting,  and  men  are  riding  the 
extra  horses  up  and  down,  in  order  to  find  the  best 
place  to  attempt,  and  everyone  is  shouting  advice; 
a  battered  victoria  drawn  by  four  horses,  comes 
into  view  from  the  opposite  direction.  It  halts  to 
let  the  passengers  alight;  then  the  coachman 
whips  up  and  dashes  into  the  quagmire,  his 
horses  plunging  wildly  as  they  fling  mud  and 
water  high  into  the  air.  They  have  almost  reached 
the  opposite  end,  when — with  a  sudden  flop — the 
carriage  settles  up  to  the  hubs  in  a  mass  of  gluey 
mud.  The  driver  flogs  and  screams,  while  the 
onlookers  dash  toward  the  horses,  shouting 
furiously  to  start  them.  The  poor  beasts  plunge 
and  pull  a  few  inches;  then  there  is  a  resounding 
crash  as  the  springs  break,  letting  the  whole 
carriage  sink  into  the  bog;  whereupon  the  horses 
are  unharnessed  and  groups  of  villagers  start 
hauling  out  the  broken  victoria.  One  of  the  two 
passengers  proves  to  be  the  head  of  the  post  relays 
at  this  village;  he  appears  quite  unconcerned — I 
suppose,  because  he  is  used  to  such  things.  He 
tells  me  that  even  if  we  succeed  in  passing  this 
spot,  there  is  a  piece  of  road  a  few  miles  ahead, 
which  we  cannot  possibly  cross  to-day  in  my 
rickety  omnibus.  He  guarantees  that,  if  I  will 
stay  the  day  here,  he  will  mend  my  vehicle,  start 
me  off  to-morrow  with  eight  rested  horses,  and 
get  me  safely  through.     The  carriage  is  in  such 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  i6i 

bad  condition,  I  am  quite  ready  to  stop,  and  even 
wonder  if  it  would  not  be  wiser  to  return  to 
Sabzawar  where  there  is  a  blacksmith,  and 
perhaps — so  discouraged  am  I — from  there  turn 
back  via  Mashhad  to  the  railway  at  Askabad. 
By  noon  I  am  re-installed  in  the  dirty  lodging  I 
occupied  last  night.  As  the  post-master  is  the 
first  Persian  I  have  met,  who  seems  to  have  any 
knowledge  or  initiative,  he  inspires  some  confidence ; 
so,  after  seeing  the  carriage  trussed  up  with  ropes 
and  other  contrivances,  I  decide  to  keep  on  to- 
morrow. The  post-master  tells  me  that  the 
Governor  of  the  province  (who  has  been  notified 
of  my  journey  by  the  kindness  of  the  British 
Consul  at  Mashhad)  has  wired  to  Sudkhwar,  the 
next  stage,  ordering  that  I  be  given  an  escort  of 
honour  consisting  of  fifty  suwdrs;  but  that — 
there  being  no  more — twenty -five  have  been  sent, 
of  whom  twenty  turned  back  when  I  did  not 
arrive  last  night.  These  figures  are  of  course 
exaggerated,  but  there  are  probably  one  or  two 
suwdrs  still  waiting  for  me;  which  is  encouraging, 
since  it  means  men  to  help  when  in  trouble.  .  .  . 
The  post  has  just  arrived  from  Sabzawar,  after 
taking  nine  hours  to  do  the  sixteen  miles;  it  is  to 
pass  the  night  here,  and  to-morrow  I  am  to 
accompany  it.  I  am  wondering  what  malign 
spirit  prompted  me  to  refuse  the  Governor's 
invitation  to  stay  at  Sabzawar,  since  I  might  have 
spent  the  night  there — avoiding  all  my  troubles — 
and  been  quite  as  far  advanced  now. 


i62     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

March  6^^ 
It  is  still  night  when  I  rise  at  half  past-four 
o'clock.  The  fire  behaves  worse  than  usual,  filling 
the  room  so  full  of  acrid  smoke  that  I  cannot  dress, 
even  when  I  crouch  close  to  the  floor.  Conse- 
quently I  have  to  fling  the  ruddy  brands  out  into 
the  blackness  of  the  street  below,  and  remain 
shivering  with  cold.  Shortly  after  I  am  dressed, 
a  wanness  appears  above  the  horizon,  against 
which  the  great  chindr  tree  in  the  courtyard  is 
distinctly  outlined,  as  well  as  another  in  the 
distance — on  whose  boughs  a  solitary  fowl  is 
perched.  Then  a  redness  slowly  flushes  the  lower 
heavens,  and  the  chindrs  begin  to  glow  as  though 
made  of  radiant  metal,  while  the  stars  recede 
from  the  fast-illumined  sky.  The  horses  are 
harnessed  by  seven  o'clock  (which  is  doing  well) 
and  we  start,  accompanying  the  post — a  rude 
wooden  waggon  without  springs,  piled  with  sacks 
and  guarded  by  two  armed  men  besides  the  driver. 
When  we  reach  yesterday's  slough,  conditions 
have  improved ;  after  endless  consultation  and  the 
harnessing  of  two  extra  horses,  the  post-master 
takes  the  reins  himself,  and  starts  the  team  on  a 
gallop  through  the  mud  and  water.  I  watch  his 
splashing  progress  with  great  anxiety,  and  give  a 
deep  sigh  of  relief  when  he  reaches  the  end  without 
mishap.  Nevertheless,  the  precarious  condition 
of  the  springs  fills  me  with  trepidation;  my  only 
hope  lies  in  the  numerous  ropes  with  which  they 
are  braced.    It  is  also  encouraging  to  find  that  our 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  163 

driver  is  the  energetic  fellow  who  came  to  the 
rescue  night  before  last.  To-day  he  is  in  full 
livery — that  is  to  say,  a  shaggy  Turkoman's 
bonnet;  and  is  much  pleased  with  himself  when  I 
take  his  photograph,  because  he  is  the  first  driver 
I  have  met  in  Persia  possessed  of  anything  like 
ordinary  intelligence.  Of  course  there  are  no 
signs  of  the  four  extra  horses  I  was  promised;  but 
it  has  been  agreed  that  the  post  shall  travel  with 
my  carriage,  lending  horses  and  helping  whenever 
necessary. 

When  we  finally  make  a  real  start,  the  sim  has 
just  begim  to  peer  over  the  earthen  walls  of 
Rlvand,  gilding  the  sky  with  tints  of  pale  yellow 
so  luminous  they  force  my  eyes  to  drop.  The 
plain  is  nearly  dry,  and  the  road — where  there 
is  one — fairly  good.  Every  few  himdred  yards, 
however,  the  torrents  that  recently  rushed  down 
from  the  neighbouring  mountains,  have  dug  great 
gullies,  sometimes  several  feet  deep  and  often  with 
steep  sides.  Boimcing  into  these  and  up  the 
opposite  bank,  is  dangerous — as  well  as  difficult — 
in  an  old  omnibus  loaded  with  luggage  and  dis- 
abled by  weak  springs.  At  every  gully  that 
crosses  the  waggon-tracks — for  that  is  what  a 
road  means — all  of  us  have  to  get  out;  then  my 
men  and  those  from  the  post,  dig  out  the  wheels 
and  level  the  edges  when  we  are  stuck,  or  else  fill 
up  the  cut  if  sufficiently  narrow.  After  that,  often 
with  an  extra  horse  from  the  post,  we  struggle 
across  amid  wild  shouts  of  encouragement;  the 


i64     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

omnibus  swaying,  bounding,  and  creaking,  every 
moment  in  imminent  danger  of  breaking  into  bits. 
As  this  business  has  to  be  repeated  every  five  or 
ten  minutes,  it  is  easy  to  imagine  how  slow  and 
nerve-racking  our  progress  really  is.  Once  the 
post-waggon  sticks  in  a  gully,  practically  on  end, 
with  the  horses  perched  on  the  bank  above;  from 
which  interesting  position  it  is  only  extricated  with 
great  difficulty.  On  one  occasion  Aghajan  takes 
the  reins,  while  the  two  drivers  pull  and  whip; 
with  his  usual  dexterity  he  almost  turns  the 
carriage  over,  bringing  it  to  a  halt  in  the  worst 
possible  position. 

We  are  now  in  the  midst  of  a  great  plain,  bor- 
dered on  each  hand  by  hills,  here  and  there  tipped 
with  snow,  the  plain  of  Mihr,  where  the  "War  of 
Religion" — so  famous  in  Zoroastrian  literature — 
occurred.  Ahead  of  us  the  little  range  of  serrated 
peaks  around  which  the  Iranians  executed  their 
victory-bearing  flank  movement,  emerge  from  the 
level  earth  as  suddenly  as  volcanic  islands  from 
the  sea.  It  is  strange  to  think  that  this  dreary  and 
almost  uninhabited  plateau,  across  which  we  are 
advancing  so  painfully,  was  in  prehistoric  days  the 
scene  of  actions  whose  fame  still  lingers.  A  little 
after  ten  o'clock  a  troupe  of  horsemen — followed 
by  a  post- waggon — gallops  up,  headed  by  an 
extraordinary  individual,  wearing  a  Bedouin's 
headdress  and  around  his  arm  a  vermilion  band 
with  the  Turkish  star  and  crescent.  On  dis- 
mounting,  his   appearance   and   manner   are — if 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  165 

possible — still  more  curious;  he  tells  me,  in  an 
impossible  French  jargon,  that  he  is  a  Young 
Turkish  journalist  from  Constantinople,  on  his 
way  to  Kabul.  I  cannot  help  wondering  why  he 
wishes  to  enter  the  forbidden  land,  Afghanistan, 
and  how  he  will  manage  to  do  so.  The  first  Young 
Turk  I  have  ever  seen,  does  not  impress  me  very 
favourably.  He  is  accompanied  by  five  suwdrs, 
two  escorting  him  and  three  sent  to  meet  me. 
They  are  rather  less  shabby  than  usual,  particu- 
larly one  who  rejoices  in  a  pair  of  European  russet- 
leather  boots  and  a  young  horse.  I  am  glad  to 
have  them  arrive,  not  for  the  sake  of  their  dubious 
protection,  but  because  they  make  it  possible  to 
send  for  help  if  needed,  or  even  ride  ahead  myself 
on  one  of  their  horses.  They  report  that  five  of 
the  Turkomen  whose  raids  have  made  the  road 
insecure,  have  recently  reappeared  and  are  now 
being  pursued  in  the  mountains.  Unless  the 
Turkomen  are  arrant  cowards,  they  are  certain  to 
escape;  for  everything  leads  me  to  believe  that 
Persian  character  and  courage  have  not  changed 
since  the  days  of  Haji  Baba.  Indeed,  Morier's 
famous  phrase,  based  on  the  actual  word  of  a 
Persian  general: — "O  Allah,  Allah,  if  there  was  no 
dying  in  the  case,  how  the  Persians  would  fight!" 
— was  paralleled  a  very  short  time  ago  by  a 
Persian  officer  who,  to  the  enquiry  why  he  had 
not  ordered  his  men  to  advance,  replied:  some  of 
them  might  have  been  killed. 

Shortly  before  reaching  SudkhwSr,  three  gazelles 


i66     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

chased  by  a  dog  bound  across  the  road.  My 
escort  pursues  them,  firing  several  times;  but 
fortunately  the  graceful  leaping  creatures  escape 
their  harriers  in  the  hills  across  the  plain.  We 
arrive  at  the  relay  about  eleven  o'clock  to  my 
intense  relief,  as  each  stage  ended  without  mishap 
to  the  carriage,  is  a  weight  off  my  mind.  An  empty 
carriage  is  standing  by  the  post-house,  but  proves 
to  be  in  even  worse  condition  than  mine.  I  take 
my  limcheon  on  the  floor  in  a  house  that  belongs 
to  the  suwdrs,  with  one  of  them  seated  opposite, 
watching  me.  He  knows  just  enough  French  to 
make  me  understand  that  his  native  tongue  is 
Turkish,  and  that  he  has  been  brought  from  Tih- 
ran  by  the  Governor  of  this  province ;  his  eyes  and 
bearing  show  that — like  most  of  the  men — he 
smokes  opium  in  his  tobacco.  To  be  an  object  of 
curiosity  and  constant  inspection,  I  find  most 
embarrassing.  Probably  I  shall  soon  learn  to 
endure  the  stare  of  searching  eyes  with  perfect 
indifference;  at  present,  however,  when  every 
gesture  is  watched  by  silent  spectators,  my  food 
sticks  in  my  throat,  and  makes  me  sympathise 
with  small  children  who  bellow  under  the  gaze  of 
strangers. 

When  I  leave,  my  former  escort  refuses  a  tip 
(to  me  a  novel  experience)  because  I  am  their 
master's  guest.  Four  new  men — poor  shabby 
devils  like  the  rest  of  their  ill-fed  and  unpaid 
fellows — accompany  me  on  lank  quivering  horses. 
The  shabbiness  of  these  Persians  is  too  pitiful  to 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  167 

be  ludicrous;  they  certainly  are  wretched  speci- 
mens of  humanity,  but  it  is  impossible  not  to  com- 
miserate them,  since  in  no  country  I  have  ever 

visited  is  there  such  abject  miser\''  as  here 

The  new  driver  is  an  idiot  who  takes  chances 
in  bad  places,  so  every  minute  I  am  expecting 
the  springs  to  break.  This  anxiety  makes  travel 
detestable,  as  does  the  ceaseless  tying  and  re- 
tying,  breaking  and  mending,  of  the  century-old 
collection  of  rotten  string  supposed  to  be  harness. 
The  horses  are  always  untrained  and  badly 
harnessed ;  though  broken  down — being  stallions — ■ 
they  neigh,  kick,  and  rear,  giving  as  much  trouble 
as  thoroughbreds.  In  place  of  real  whips,  the 
drivers  have  nothing  but  a  little  stick  with  a  yard 
or  so  of  string,  which  makes  no  noise  and  is  only 
used  to  thrash  the  horses  unmercifully;  whenever 
one  of  them  misbehaves,  the  driver  jumps  down, 
and — imtil  stopped  by  me — flogs  the  poor  beast 
about  the  head  in  a  manner  as  brutal  as  it  is 
stupid.  This  time  we  have  only  gone  a  short 
distance,  when,  while  walking,  I  notice  that  one 
of  the  horses  has  a  horrible  raw  wound  imder  the 
collar.  The  driver  watches  my  attempts  to  lessen 
its  misery,  with  the  passive  scorn  one  might 
bestow  on  the  vagaries  of  a  spoiled  child.  It  is 
impossible  to  retiim,  since  the  post  will  not  wait 
for  me,  and  also  useless,  since  the  next  traveller 
would  take  the  same  horse;  all  I  can  do,  is  to  pad 
the  collar  with  my  handkerchief;  but  the  thought 
of  this  wretched  animal  with  his  wounded  neck 


i68      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

pressed  against  the  burning  collar  as  he  struggles 
along,  adds  new  distress  to  the  journey. 

The  road  improving  gradually  as  the  mountains, 
which  send  down  the  destructive  torrents,  grow 
lower,  the  carriage  finally  reaches  Mazlnan  intact. 
The  first  thing  to  do,  however,  is  to  have  it 
doctored,  since  the  town  boasts  a  so-called  black- 
smith; in  the  midst  of  a  curious  crowd,  which 
probably  does  not  see  a  firangl  (foreigner)  once  a 
year,  all  the  local  talent  is  called  in  to  straighten 

and  reinforce  the  springs The  walled 

town  is  entered  by  a  large  arch  leading  into  a  long 
street,  where  a  few  trees  grow  beside  a  dirty 
rivulet  running  down  the  middle.  Camels  and 
donkeys  crowd  about  this  gateway  so  thickly,  it  is 
hard  to  pick  one's  way;  further  along,  strips  of 
light  and  darker  green  stuffs — freshly  dyed- 
hang  across  the  street  in  great  festoons.  There 
being  no  caravanserai,  I  lodge  in  a  house  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town,  where  a  fairly  clean  room 
with  a  miraculous  fire-place  that  does  not  smoke, 
gives  on  a  court  for  once  free  from  manure. 
Walking  on  the  roof,  I  can  see  a  waxing  moon 
shine  in  a  cloudless  sky,  stre"9VTi  with  glittering 
stars  everywhere,  except  close  to  the  horizon. 
Looking  across  courtyards  enclosed  by  mud  roofs 
with  tiny  domes — like  bubbles  in  breadcrust,  I 
can  distinctly  see  the  white  cap  of  a  single  snow- 
peak,  hanging  without  apparent  support  above  the 
empty  darkness,  precisely  as  Fujiyama  is  drawn 
in  the  colour-prints  of  Hokusai. 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  169 

March  7*.** 
Aghajan  having  last  night  been  threatened  with 
dire  penalties,  if  he  did  not  have  the  samovar 
boiling  by  four-thirty  A.M.,  slept  soundly — 
although  the  alarm-clock  which  Said  placed 
beside  his  head,  must  have  ning  loudly.  For- 
tunately I  woke  before  five  myself,  and  managed 
to  rouse  him  by  pounding  on  his  door,  and  shouting 
a  string  of  oaths — the  only  thing  I  have  found 

effective From  the  roof -terrace  the  sky 

is  visible,  veiled  with  grey  except  toward  the 
eastern  horizon,  where  a  ruddy  bronze  cloud  is 
hanging,  with  a  few  trees  traced  on  it  in  lines  of 
black.  When  my  kit  is  ready,  dawn  has  come  but 
not  the  sun.  Two  men  precede  me  between  the 
mud  walls  of  a  narrow  street,  carrying  the  luggage 
slung  on  their  backs  by  ropes  across  the  shoulders 
— a  living  illustration  for  'Umar's  verses: 

"  And  then  they  jogg'd  each  other,  'Brother!  Brother! 
Now  for  the  Porter's  shoulder-knot  a-creaking.' " 

Each  day  furnishes  new  impediments  to  an 
early  departure,  but  this  morning's  is  most 
unusual.  On  reaching  the  gates,  we  find  them 
fastened  by  a  padlock  and  heavy  chain,  which 
permit  the  doors  to  open  far  enough  for  a  man  to 
pass — so  marauders  could  perfectly  well  enter  by 
night — but  not  wide  enough  for  my  kit  to  be 
carried  through.  Aghajan,  who  has  preceded  us 
by  some  minutes,  is  rushing  about  helplessly, 
since  the  keeper  of  the  keys  is  not  to  be  found  at 


I70     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

any  of  his  habitual  haunts.  This  is  maddening, 
despite  my  now  large  experience  of  the  annoyances 
incident  to  Persian  travel.  The  doors  stoutly 
withstand  every  effort  Said  and  I  can  make  to 
pick  the  lock,  or  break  the  chain  with  stones. 
Finally  a  man  with  the  key  appears  from  nowhere; 
but  it  is  impossible  to  discover  whether  he  is  a 
culprit,  who  deserves  to  be  scolded  for  forgetting 
to  open  the  gate,  or  a  benefactor  who  has  fetched 
the  key. 

The  carriage  is  loaded  and  ready  to  start  about 
seven — only  one  hour  late!  It  has  been  patched 
up,  but  so  badly  I  realise  it  can  never  reach 
Shahrud,  where  I  had  hoped  to  find  another. 
Rather  than  put  up  with  imceasing  anxiety,  lest 
the  carriage  break  down  at  every  bump  or  gully 
we  cross ;  I  decide  to  take  a  fourgon,  like  the  post- 
waggon,  as  soon  as  I  can  find  one.  No  matter 
how  torturing  its  lack  of  springs  may  prove,  it 

cannot  be  worse  than  my  present  worries 

There  are  many  ruined  villages  scattered  along 
the  road,  some  of  their  remains — I  believe — of 
great  antiquity.  We  are  still  crossing  one  of  those 
barren  plains  which  apparently  constitute  the 
greater  part  of  Persia;  skirting  low  hills  to  the 
right,  with  a  lake-like  accumulation  of  shallow 
water  on  the  left.  About  ten  we  reach  a  caravan- 
serai, where  the  suwdrs  have  a  post.  As  there  are 
no  relays  here  and  three  farsakhs  to  go  before 
reaching  one,  the  horses  are  taken  out  to  be  fed 
and  rested — whereupon  I  discover  that  one  of 


TEC  -  ART  STUDIOS,  Inc. 

MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  171 

them  is  horribly  galled.  The  sight  of  these  maimed 
creatures  is  beginning  to  make  my  trip  a  night- 
mare. Whilst  waiting,  the  suwdrs  of  my  past  and 
future  escort  invite  me  into  a  small  but  rather 
clean  room,  stir  the  smouldering  fire,  and  bring 
me  tea.  The  chief  who  is  to  accompany  me, 
appears  to  be  something  like  a  lieutenant,  and  is 
in  his  green  uniform  the  first  to  have  any  pretence 
to  trimness.  He  has  raven  hair,  curling  about  his 
ears  in  the  two  locks  Persians  still  affect,  although 
many  of  them — as  far  as  I  can  tell — no  longer 
shave  their  heads;  he  is  bronzed,  with  a  cast  of 
features  reminding  me  of  the  pictures  of  Darius 
Codomannus  in  history-books. 

When  we  leave,  the  suwdrs  escort  us,  galloping 
in  front  of  and  behind  my  carriage  and  the  still 
faithful  post- waggon.  The  scenery  is  extremely 
monotonous — a  desert  strewn  with  hummocks 
on  which  leprous  plants  make  grey  spots,  with 
occasional  salt  deposits  forming  white  patches 
easily  mistaken  for  snow.  The  only  break  in  the 
monotony  occurs  at  the  Pul-i-Abrasham,  a  bridge 
which  once  marked  the  boundary  between  the 
provinces  of  Iraq  and  Khurasan.  About  one 
o'clock,  we  pass  a  military  outpost  built  on  a  hill 
to  protect  'Abbas  Abad  against  raiding  Turkomen; 
here  I  am  offered  tea  in  tiny  glasses  on  saucers, 
with  little  spoons  standing  in  them  and  many 
lumps  of  sugar  at  the  bottom.  While  I  am  drink- 
ing it,  my  escort  indulges  in  noisy  refreshment 
inside  the  tower.     After  trotting  up  and  around 


172      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  shoulder  of  a  hill,  'Abbas  Abad  comes  into 
sight  opposite  but  below  us — a  collection  of  the 
usual  mud  houses  built  on  a  mound,  up  which 
they  rise  in  several  tiers,  with  a  flag  making  a 
scarlet  spot  over  the  principal  gate.  I  know  that 
this  is  the  place  Shah  'Abbas  founded  with  a  colony 
of  Christians  transported  from  Georgia,  who 
afterwards  became  Muslims ;  but  this  bare  historic 
fact  fails  to  invest  with  interest  a  commonplace 
town.  This  is  often  the  case;  yet  travellers  are 
to-day  so  eager  to  revivify  history  and  arouse 
sensation  by  giving  the  imagination  a  free  rein, 
that  they  frequently  attempt  to  be  thrilled,  when 
it  were  wiser  to  realise  how  the  past  sometimes 
vanishes  beyond  recall.  Be  this  as  it  may, 
'Abbas  Abad  leaves  me  unmoved. 

When  we  enter  the  town,  I  find — to  my  surprise 
— the  greater  part  of  the  inhabitants  lined  up  to 
await  my  arrival,  which  they  greet  with  deep  bows. 
On  alighting,  the  first  thing  I  do,  is  to  search  for  a 
fourgon;  to  my  rehef  I  discover  a  solid  one,  which 
I  soon  persuade  the  bare-legged  post-master  to 
give  me  in  place  of  my  tottering  omnibus.  Then 
I  am  told  that  the  chief  official  of  the  town  and 
the  captain  of  the  suwdrs  are  waiting  to  receive 
me ;  so  I  march  off  like  a  potentate,  followed  by  a 
gaping  crowd  and  flanked  by  lines  of  spectators. 
After  crossing  a  neglected  court,  I  am  ushered 
into  a  small  octagonal  room,  where  light  only 
enters  through  the  door  and  an  aperture  in  the 
roof;  its  floor  and  walls  are  covered  with  carpets. 


A  Persian  Post  Driver  in  Full  Livery 
(This  is  the  only  intelligent  driver  I  encountered  in  Persia) 


Carrying  the  Mail  in  Khurasan 
The    Post- Waggon  in  Difficulties 


Exchanging  a   Broken  Diligence  for  a   Springless  Fourgoa,  'Abbas  Abad 


*  ^KSIr. 


The  Burial-Place  of  Bayazid,  Saint  and  Mystic,  Bustam 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  173 

Three  or  four  men  are  standing  to  receive  me, 
none  of  whom  can  speak  a  word  of  anything  but 
Persian;  after  many  interpreted  salutations,  I 
take  a  seat  on  the  floor  cross-legged ,  leaning  on  one 
of  the  three  cushions  placed  against  the  wall. 
Sitting  cross-legged  in  stocking-feet  like  the 
Orientals,  is  all  very  well;  but  with  blackened 
boots,  it  is  a  painful  and  soiling  position.  Grow- 
ing used  to  the  semi-obscurity,  I  begin  to  distin- 
guish the  features  of  those  present.  When  various 
politenesses  have  been  exchanged  through  Agha- 
jan,  he  goes  to  look  after  the  luggage;  in  order  to 
lessen  the  embarrassment  which  enforced  silence 
makes  me  feel,  and  also  to  shield  myself  from  my 
hosts'  unwavering  scrutiny, — I  take  the  officer's 
child  on  my  knees,  making  tolerable  friends  with 
this  chubby  young  Persian.  Before  long  a  servant 
enters,  says  a  few  words  to  the  officer  (among 
which  I  recognise  the  word,  post),  then  withdraws. 
In  a  moment  the  little  man  who  has  guarded  the 
mails  since  Rivand,  appears  in  the  doorway, 
removes  his  shoes,  wipes  his  hands  on  his  hand- 
kerchief, and  crosses  the  room.  He  next  kneels  in 
front  of  the  captain,  takes  his  hands,  and  bows 
low  enough  to  kiss  both  knees;  the  officer  then 
raises  the  man's  hands  to  his  own  heart  in  acknow- 
ledgment of  the  salutation,  and  allows  him  to 
retire. 

Aghajan  now  reappears  to  announce  that  lunch 
is  ready,  which  I  was  not  expecting.  Passing  into 
the  next  room,  I  find  an  elaborate  meal  laid  out  on 


174     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  floor,  according  to  the  real  Persian  custom. 
A  large  green  cloth  covers  the  whole  carpet, 
except  a  space  near  the  walls  where  the  guests  are 
to  sit.  In  the  centre  is  a  large  glass  of  water,  from 
which  aU  who  wish  may  drink;  the  edges  are 
bordered  with  the  strips  of  thin  bread,  which 
appear  to  be  indispensable  at  any  respectable 
Persian  repast.  The  table  or  rather  floor-cloth  is 
thickly  covered  with  dishes — for  the  most  part, 
bowls  of  all  sizes  and  shapes — filled  with  edibles 
such  as  were  served  at  Nishapur.  The  principal 
dish  is  of  course  a  pilaw,  with  which  the  other 
foods  are  mixed.  For  me  a  spoon,  knife,  and  fork 
have  been  provided;  the  others  eat  with  their 
fingers  in  true  Persian  fashion,  leaning  toward  or 
crouching  over  the  food,  which  they  toss  into  their 
mouths  and  swallow  with  extreme  rapidity. 
Please  yourself  is  the  motto;  each  man  helps 
himself  to  whatever  he  wishes,  whenever  he 
chooses,  leaving  the  room  as  soon  as  finished. 
There  is  no  disregard  of  others  in  this  custom, 
since  everyone  is  equally  at  liberty  to  do  as  he 
pleases;  moreover,  if  the  table-manners  lack  the 
polish  to  which  Occidentals  are  accustomed,  the 
sincere  hospitality  and  courteous  intentions  are 
admirable.  After  luncheon  tea  is  served  again, 
Persians  seeming  to  surpass  even  Russians  in 
their  ability  to  drink  unlimited  quantities  of  chai. 
Being  guest  of  honour,  I  am  always  given  the 
largest  glass ;  so  the  amount  of  tea  which  I  absorb, 
must  be  enormous. 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  175 

As  soon  as  it  is  polite  to  do  so,  I  make  the  move 
to  leave,  being  anxious  to  continue  my  journey. 
I  find  that  Said  has  had  the  luggage  transferred 
to  the  fourgon,  and  has  arranged  it  cleverly,  with 
my  bed  and  two  valises  forming  a  low-backed 
throne,  on  which  it  is  possible  to  sit  quite  com- 
fortably. After  exchanging  elaborate  salutations 
with  my  amiable  hosts,  we  start — Said  and  I 
perched  on  the  throne,  exactly  like  the  mediaeval 
Russians  in  one  of  Rimsky-Korsakov's  legendary 
operas.  As  the  road  from  here  to  Miamai  is  still 
supposed  to  be  dangerous  on  accoimt  of  frequent 
raids  by  Turkomen,  my  escort  is  niimerous  and 
headed  by  the  chief  of  the  suwdrs  in  person.  He 
is  a  tall  lithe  man,  with  sharp  black  eyes,  an 
aquiline  nose,  and  a  deeply  bronzed  complexion — 
a  living  personification  of  Don  Quixote.  He  wears 
a  green  jacket  and  trousers;  the  former  almost 
hidden  imder  a  leather  cuirass  full  of  cartridges, 
the  latter  held  in  place  by  leggings  but  little  higher 
than  anklets.  His  feet  are  shod  with  "pnmella" 
boots,  whose  outstanding  tabs — with  Russian 
letters — betray  their  origin.  On  his  head  is  a 
curious  white  felt  hat,  the  brim  of  which  has  been 
cut  in  two,  so  one  half  can  be  turned  up  behind 
until  it  touches  the  high  stiff  crown,  while  the 
other  forms  a  long  visor.  He  is  riding  a  white 
stallion,  nobly  formed  and  daintily  stepping, 
without  a  coloured  hair  on  his  whole  body,  except 
his  tail  dyed  flame-red  with  henna,  precisely  like 
the  horses  in  old  Persian  miniatures.    It  may  seem 


176     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

grotesque,  but  this  one  flamboyant  touch  of  colour 
on  the  snow-white  animal,  is  as  beautiful  as  it  is 
striking.  The  saddle-trappings  are  of  embroidered 
cloth,  with  a  long  cord,  finished  by  a  tassel,  almost 
trailing  on  the  ground  on  either  side;  underneath 
the  saddle  is  a  tawny  spotted  leopard's  fell, 
entirely  covering  the  horse's  crupper,  with  a  paw 
dangling  on  each  flank,  and  the  tail  hanging  beside 
the  horse's.  Around  the  neck — just  behind  the 
ears — is  a  collar  filled  with  cartridges,  two  by  two ; 
another,  with  a  long  fringe  of  swaying  leather 
cords,  staring  from  the  pommel,  encircles  the 
chest.  This  splendid  charger  paces  along — as 
though  dancing — on  slender  legs  that  look  like 
springing  steel,  tossing  a  head  as  small  and  finely 
shaped  as  any  Phidias  carved,  at  the  same  time 
bending  his  beautiful  neck  and  clipped  mane. 
With  his  picturesque  rider  erect  in  the  saddle,  this 
curvetting  stallion — his  leopard  skin,  tassels,  and 
fringes,  swinging  from  side  to  side  as  he  arches  his 
gaudy  tail  streaming  proudly  in  the  wind — is  a 
sight  I  never  expected  to  see  outside  of  some 
exquisite  miniature  wrought  to  captivate  the 
magnificent  Shah  'Abbas;  it  is  also  the  first 
beautiful  or  imusual  one  I  have  seen  since  entering 
Persia. 

Our  procession  is  headed  by  a  suwdr  with  a 
jacket  of  pinkish  purple,  of  which  all  but  the 
sleeves  and  skirt  are  hidden  by  a  cartridge-cuirass. 
He  is  leading  the  officer's  extra  horse — a  fine  jet- 
black  creature,  over  whose  saddle  is  thrown  a 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  177 

vermilion  cloth  richly  embroidered  about  the 
border.  Then  come  in  succession :  the  captain,  the 
escort,  my  fourgon,  and  the  post.  The  road  rises 
slightly  but  steadily,  winding  across  a  barren 
plain,  until  it  reaches  a  desert  upland  full  of  sandy 
hillocks,  now  spreading  out,  now  enclosing  the 
road  in  a  narrow  gorge.  The  dust-brown  or 
greenish  earth  is  denuded  of  all  vegetation,  with 
the  exception  of  dried  clumps  of  grass  and  a  kind 
of  thorn-bush  covered  with  purplish  blossoms,  so 
minute  they  form  a  haze  of  mauve  aroimd  the 
bare  and  angular  twigs.  The  sun,  now  binning 
hot,  shines  directly  in  our  faces,  suffusing  all 
things  with  a  glittering  mist  of  gold.  Advancing 
up  this  strange  land  of  barren  hills,  preceded  by 
armed  horsemen  six  abreast,  headed  by  a  scarlet- 
caparisoned  lead -horse  and  an  officer  mounted 
on  a  white  stallion,  sweeping  from  side  to  side  his 
incredible  tail, — is  a  striking  experience. 

The  road  now  begins  to  ascend  perceptibly,  and 
the  monticules  turn  into  hills  of  respectable  size, 
imdulating  awa}?-  row  upon  row.  At  the  small 
fortified  village  of  Alhaqq,  we  stop  for  a  half -hour 
to  rest  the  horses,  and  refresh  ourselves  with 
omnipresent  glasses  of  sugared  tea.  The  captain 
tells  me — through  Aghajan — that  some  seven 
months  ago  a  band  of  nine  hundred  Turkomen 
raided  these  parts,  of  whom  he  and  his  men  killed 
seven  hundred;  that  he  has  affixed  the  head  of  a 
Turkoman  over  the  entrance  of  every  caravan- 
serai (I  have  seen  none)  as  a  warning  to  marauders ; 


178     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

that  he  is  obHged  to  be  on  the  watch  day  and 
night,  and  has  often  been  four  days  in  the  moun- 
tains without  food  fof  himself  or  his  horse;  and 
finally  that  he  has  just  received  news  of  five 
hundred  Turkomen  advancing  on  this  part  of  the 
country.  Shades  of  Haji  Baba!  I  can  almost 
hear  your  voice,  and  could  well  believe  that  time 
has  reverted  a  hundred  years.  This  Tamburlaine 
is  certainly  a  most  picturesque  fellow  and  very 
courteous ;  but  I  should  place  more  reliance  on  the 
powers  of  his  tongue  than  on  the  valour  of  his 
fighting.  If  my  thoughts  do  him  wrong,  may  I 
be  forgiven. 

As  we  mount  a  steep  ascent,  the  sun  has  begim 
to  sink,  and  clouds  have  gathered  in  threatening 
masses,  streaked  by  black  shreds  of  trailing  rain. 
Between  the  farthest  range  of  hills  and  the  edge 
of  the  rain-shedding  clouds,  a  group  of  moimtains 
is  faintly  visible  in  the  far  distance — glazed  with 
pale  green  reflections,  and  sharply  outlined  against 
a  sky  of  aquamarine  filled  with  small  white  clouds. 
Viewing  the  pallor  of  this  aqueous  green  land- 
scape through  the  narrow  space  between  sombre 
hills  and  still  blacker  sky,  seems  like  peering  into  a 
world  under  the  ocean.  Far  behind — where  the 
storm  has  not  yet  gathered — the  sun  slants 
toward  the  barren  plain,  tinging  it  with  rose, 
lavender,  and  mauve.  Ahead  of  us  from  time  to 
time,  the  figures  of  a  man  and  a  grazing  horse  ap- 
pear on  the  highest  hill-crests,  sharplj^^  silhouetted 
against  the  raven  sky.    They  are  sentinels  (on  the 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  179 

watch  for  marauding  Turkomen)  whose  presence 
brings  a  reaHsation  that  the  danger  of  travel  in  this 
part  of  Persia,  is  not  altogether  imaginary.  As 
we  pass,  they  jump  on  their  horses,  gallop  down 
the  steep  inclines,  and,  after  saluting,  report  to  the 
captain.  As  we  proceed,  under  heavens  darkening 
more  and  more,  these  hill-perched  sentinels  appear 
with  greater  frequence  and  in  larger  groups. 
Several  times  upon  receiving  their  report,  the 
officer  orders  our  driver  and  the  driver  of  the  post- 
waggon — which  is  following  us  with  five  armed 
men  seated  on  the  mail-sacks — to  drive  as  fast  as 
possible,  since  there  is  danger.  The  cold  has 
become  unpleasant,  and  in  front  the  rain  is 
trailing  down  in  great  fringes  of  blue-black,  ad- 
vancing rapidly  until  they  wrap  us  in  a  heavy 
shower,  half  water,  half  hail. 

Night  has  now  all  but  fallen;  more  than  once  a 
watcher's  tent  appears  on  the  summit  of  a  hill 
beside  a  red-gold  fire,  flickering  against  gathering 
shadows  among  which  sentinels  stand  out  vaguely. 
Rattling  along  this  desolate  road  in  a  remote 
countr}'',  followed  by  the  armed  post,  as  night 
moves  across  the  hills  amid  gusts  of  rain,  with 
watchmen  visible  on  every  crest,  and  an  officer 
urging  us  into  a  gallop  through  the  sinister  dark 
to  avoid  possible  danger  of  attack, — is  quite 
thrilling.  Gradually  the  storm  withdraws,  allow- 
ing the  long-risen  half  moon  to  shine  out  of  an 
expanse  of  azure  sky,  where — it  would  seem — 
glittering  stars  move  swiftly  past  immobile  clouds. 


i8o     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

Day  has  insensibly  changed  into  a  moon-lit  night, 
whose  palHd  radiance  beautifies  the  barren  hills. 
The  cold  has  grown  intense  enough  to  make  me 
eager  to  exchange  this  noisy  jolting  waggon  for 
shelter.  Straight  ahead  of  us,  solid  black  storm- 
clouds  are  still  advancing  slowly,  until  a  sudden 
flash  of  lightning  dashes  down  the  sky  in  a 
flame  of  jagged  white.  The  moon  is  hidden 
again,  the  cold  increases,  and  the  relay  seems 
interminably  far  off.  At  last  a  second  flash 
of  lightning  rives  the  dark,  revealing  for  one 
instant  the  walls  of  the  caravanserai ;  then  a  light 
appears  where  kneeling  camels  are  encamped  with 
their  drivers  outside  the  walls.  Passing  on,  we 
find  the  road  huddled  with  bleating  sheep,  then 
finally  enter  the  court  just  as  rain  patters  down 
once  more. 

I  am  led  through  the  blackness  of  a  vaulted 
passage  into  a  second  enclosure,  where  mud  hovels 
cluster — just  visible  by  moonlight  filtering  through 
the  clouds.  The  only  room  to  be  had  is  a  nasty 
kind  of  half -cave,  half -prison  (its  shutterlcss 
windows  barred  with  iron)  where  wind  and  filth 
abound.  When  in  moving  it,  I  break  the  feeble 
lamp  and  have  to  wait  ten  minutes  in  complete 
darkness  before  anyone  comes,  my  traveller's 
courage  ebbs  to  its  lowest.  After  Said  has 
arranged  things  as  best  he  can,  and  a  not  too 
smoky  fire  has  been  lighted  and  something  to  eat 
has  with  infinite  difficulty  been  secured;  I  go  to 
bed  with  a  wry  smile. 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  i8i 

March  8*^ 
Aghajan  had  my  fire  lighted  at  a  half  after  four, 
still  the  dead  of  night — but,  despite  dire  threats, 
did  not  have  porters  and  horses  ready  to  leave  at 
six  o'clock.  Men  to  carry  my  kit  to  the  carriage, 
only  appeared  after  I  had  shaken  him  by  the 
shoulders,  and  had  gone  to  the  stable  myself  in 
search  of  the  driver.  Polite  signs  that  I  wished 
the  horses  brought  out  proving  fruitless,  I  returned 
to  the  long  dim  vault  of  a  stable.  Finding  the 
driver  seated  on  a  high  platform,  leisurely  smoking 
and  drinking  tea;  I  took  a  running  leap,  landed  on 
the  platform  in  the  middle  of  the  indolent  group, 
seized  my  driver  by  the  collar,  and — amid  con- 
sternation and  screams  of  shaitdn  (the  devil) — 
threw  him  off  and  banged  his  head  against  one 
of  the  horses.  After  this  they  were  immediately 
brought  out.  A  few  more  weeks  of  travel  in 
Persia,  and  I  shall  have  much  sympathy  for  the 
shaitdn  to  whom  I  have  just  been  so  kindly 
compared. 

About  seven  we  leave  this  loathsome  caravan- 
serai, with  a  just-risen  sun  driving  the  mists  away, 
while  to  the  right  across  the  now  golden  plain, 
remote  peaks  of  snow  stand  out.  They  sink,  like 
icebergs  in  a  Polar  ocean,  to  what — by  a  curious 
play  of  cloud  and  shadow — appears  to  be  a  shallow 
lake,  extending  to  the  moimtains  that  bound  the 
horizon  ahead  of  us.  The  captain  and  his  suwdrs 
are  not  ready,  but  soon  overtake  us;  the  post, 
however,  fails  to  put  in  an  appearance — which  no 


i82     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

longer  matters.  Persian  luck  has  given  me  one 
horse  that  must  be  suffering  from  some  horrid  dis- 
ease, since  it  exhales  a  stench  beyond  endurance. 
When  I  can  bear  it  no  longer,  I  ask  Don  Quixote 
to  have  one  of  his  men  lend  me  a  horse  and  take 
my  place  in  the  cart.  To  my  relief,  this  is  done  at 
once,  but  I  find  riding  a  Persian  saddle — which  is  a 
wooden  letter  V  with  a  high  pommel,  padded  with 
cloth — rather  painful,  particularly  as  it  forces 
me  to  take  an  unaccustomed  position,  and  has 
very  short  stirrups. 

The  road  ascends  through  a  narrow  gorge 
between  burnt  hills,  still  dotted  with  not  infre- 
quent sentinels — this  being  a  much  dreaded  stage. 
After  passing  two  fourgons,  loaded  with  currency 
for  the  bank  at  Mashhad  and  escorted  by  an 
armed  guard  of  Persian  Cossacks,  we  arrive  at  a 
large  square  fortification  with  a  round  entrance- 
tower  ;  beside  a  flag-pole,  peering  over  the  gatev/ay 
battlements,  is  a  stuffed  hyena — rather  a  ghastly 
sight.  There  is  a  coming  and  going  of  suwars;  then 
six  of  them  line  up  and  blow  me  a  salute  on  very 
shrill  trumpets ;  after  which  I  am  led  to  a  room  in 
the  tower,  where  I  find  the  officer  who  is  to  accom- 
pany me  the  next  stage,  and  a  Persian  travelling 
with  the  convoy  to  Mashhad.  After  taking  leave 
of  the  picturesque  braggart,  who  has  headed  my 
guard  since  yesterday,  we  start  again  about  eleven 
o'clock.  My  escort  is  now  reduced  to  two  men 
besides  the  new  officer,  but  he  is  a  host  in  himself 
— a  broad-shouldered  giant  with  an  almost  black 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  183 

face,  who  wears  real  riding  boots  neatly  made,  and 
carries  a  pistol  slung  across  his  cartridge-cuirass 
by  a  golden  baldric.  He  is  riding  an  iron-grey 
stallion,  with  saffron  saddle-cloth  and  tassels,  his 
four  fetlocks  dyed  with  henna  to  almost  the  same 
shade  as  the  trappings ;  and  sits  his  mount  superbly 
as  though  horse  and  man  were  one,  the  very 
image  of  Othello  or  a  fierce  Renaissance  condottiere. 
We  reach  Miamai  about  noon.  On  the  hills  above 
the  village,  there  are  ruins  of  old  fortifications — 
supposed  to  date  from  the  Irano-Tiu-anian  wars — 
which  were  visited  by  the  English  traveller,  Fraser, 
in  the  winter  of  1833,  but  as  far  as  I  know  by  no 
one  since.  Before  commencing  this  journey,  it  was 
my  firm  intention  to  climb  these  hills  and  see 
what  is  left  of  the  strongholds;  my  archaeological 
enthusiasm  has,  however,  been  annihilated  by  the 
strain  of  such  travelling  as  this;  so  I  decide  to 
push  on  to  Shahrud  to-night — after  declining  my 
officer's  courteous  invitation  to  stay  at  his  house. 
An  escort  no  longer  being  necessary,  we  start 
alone  across  one  of  those  eternal  plains  I  am 
beginning  to  hate  bitterly.  Storm-clouds  lour  on 
all  sides,  imtil  at  last  hail  and  rain  overtake  us. 
At  the  next  relay,  much  scolding  and  a  long  dispute 
secure  five  horses  to  help  me  reach  Shahrud,  the 
residence  of  the  Governor  of  the  province,  whose 
guest  I  am  to  be.  I  have  learned  that  he  is  absent 
at  Samnan;  but  knowing  that  I  will  be  less  un- 
comfortable in  an  important  town  than  in  a  road- 
side caravanserai,  am  eager  to  arrive  before  dark. 


1 84     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

After  a  long  stretch  of  changeless  scenery,  we 
come  in  sight  of  high  mountains  draped  in  snow 
and  clouds.  In  a  cleft  between  the  two  highest 
peaks,  vapour  is  piled  in  a  mound  like  snow,  with 
clear  sky  above.  Far  ahead  are  mountains  of  dull 
blue,  entirely  in  shadow,  but  with  rays  from  the 
cloud-hidden  sun  slanting  into  the  folds  between 
the  spurs,  filling  them  with  golden  haze.  At  their 
base,  a  blue-green  band  of  trees  conceals  the  town 
of  Shahrud.  The  coachman  rattles  along  at  a 
good  pace,  until — about  six  o'clock — we  reach  a 
village  where  a  group  of  suwdrs  is  waiting  to 
receive  me.  One  youth  with  an  almost  black 
complexion,  wears  under  the  usual  long  brown 
coat  a  robe  of  vivid  indigo,  contrasting  with  his 
high  bonnet  of  bright  gamboge;  he  is  holding  a 
dapple-grey  horse,  with  a  silver  cord  and  tassel 
fastened  around  its  neck  behind  the  ears,  and  a 
broad  silver  collar  around  its  shoulders.  He  looks 
as  though  about  to  appear  in  a  Russian  ballet. 
When  we  start  again,  my  escort  is  headed  by  a 
rider  holding  a  silver  rod  almost  five  feet  long — 
used  in  these  parts  as  a  sign  of  honour.  Cavalry- 
men gallop  up  from  every  direction,  until  we  are 
surrounded  by  at  least  fifteen.  The  sun  is  setting 
as  we  dash  across  the  plain,  but  when  we  draw 
near  Shahrud  the  moon  floods  the  scene  with  its 
subdued  radiance.  The  driver  appears  excited 
by  my  cavalcade  and  silver  wand  of  honour,  so  I 
make  a  princely  entry  sitting  on  a  throne  of 
luggage,  clinging  for  dear  life  to  the  side  of  my 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  185 

springless  old  waggon,  as  it  dashes  along  with  a 
furious  creaking  of  wood  and  clanking  of  chains,  in 
the  midst  of  caracoling  horsemen.  This  dramatic 
arrival,  the  most  sensational  I  have  ever  made, 
amuses  me  by  its  combination  of  the  picturesque 
and  the  ridiculous.  It  appears  that  I  was  to  have 
been  lodged  at  the  country-seat  of  the  Amir  X.,  a 
few  miles  outside  the  town;  however,  on  account 
of  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  I  am  taken  to  the  house 
of  one  of  his  retainers  hard  at  hand  within  the 
walls.  Here  after  a  long  wait,  much  arranging  of 
my  luggage,  and  a  general  scurrying  to  and  fro,  I 
have  my  dinner — seated  cross-legged  on  the  floor 
opposite  a  white-haired  and  courteous  old  man, 
with  whom  I  cannot  exchange  a  single  word. 


March  9*? 
My  first  move  this  morning  is  to  try  and  secure 
some  sort  of  a  carriage  in  place  of  my  jolting 
fourgon;  this  I  fortunately  succeed  in  doing.  Then 
the  Amir's  representative,  the  Governor  of  the 
town,  and  several  notabilities,  come  to  call  on  me. 
After  prolonged  formalities  exchanged  through 
Aghajan  (no  one  who  has  not  tried  it,  can  imagine 
the  irritation  of  talking  through  an  interpreter) 
the  Governor  and  I  drive  off  in  the  Amir's  carriage, 
a  real  but  somewhat  neglected  brougham,  which 
here  seems  curiously  out  of  place.  Our  objective 
point  is  the  old  city  of  Bustam,  illustrious  as  the 
home  and  burial  place  of  the  great  Sufi  mystic, 


1 86     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

Bayazid,  whose  loving  charity  toward  all  life, 
legend  has  symbolised  in  the  following  hyperbole: 
— ^having  ended  a  long  journey,  he  discovered  a 
number  of  ants  on  some  grain  brought  from  his 
starting-point;  whereupon  he  retraced  his  entire 
road,  in  order  that  he  might  return  the  tiny 
creatures  to  the  home  whence  he  had  unwittingly 
carried  them.  Leaving  Shahrud  behind  us  at  the 
foot  of  bare  pointed  hills,  we  cross  a  sterile  plain 
lying  in  an  amphitheatre ;  on  the  one  hand,  tawny 
hills  of  crumbled  earth  and  rock,  absolutely  bare 
of  vegetation,  but  toothed  and  graven  by  the 
erosion  of  untold  centuries;  on  the  other,  high 
mountains — so  dark  an  olive  as  to  appear  black — 
tipped  and  streaked  with  snow,  where  banks  of 
clouds  fill  the  valleys  with  veils  of  shining  white. 
Far  away  above  Shahrud,  an  immense  white  chain 
rears  itself  above  the  nearer  mountains.  It  is  bold 
barren  scenery,  whose  acrid  beauty  would  readily 
exalt  mystic  thought.  It  is  not  unlike  those 
stringent  Castilian  landscapes,  the  very  aridity 
of  which  enflames  their  lovers  as  nothing  else  ever 
can;  landscapes  that  aroused  the  mystic  ardour  of 
saints  (Theresa  of  Jesus  and  John  of  the  Cross) 
until  it  leaped  toward  God  like  a  flame  springing 
sun-ward  from  the  summit  of  a  barren  mountain. 
Only  scenes  such  as  this  seem  propitious  to  trans- 
cendental seekings,  for  I  can  recall  no  example  of  a 
great  mystic  reared  among  the  graces  of  luxuriant 
vegetation.  It  is  strange  to  think  that  a  thousand 
years  ago,  in  this  remote  and  now  abandoned  spot, 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  187 

Bayazid  looked  out  toward  these  bitter  hills,  and 
wrote: — "I  went  from  God  to  God,  until  they 
cried  from  me  in  me,  *  O  Thou  I ! '" 

"When  God  loves  a  man.  He  endows  him  with 
three  qualities  in  token  thereof:  a  boimty  like 
that  of  the  sea,  a  sympathy  like  that  of  the  sun, 
and  a  humility  like  that  of  the  earth. " 

And  again: — "Notwithstanding  that  the  lovers 
of  God  are  separated  from  Him  by  their  love, 
they  have  the  essential  thing,  for  whether  they 
sleep  or  wake,  they  seek  and  are  sought,  and  are  not 
occupied  with  their  own  seeking  and  loving,  but 
are  enraptiired  in  contemplation  of  the  Beloved. " 

Then,  as  now,  many  must  ardently  have  longed 
to  know  whether  such  ideas  represent  Truth,  or 
are  only  the  spinning  of  an  over-subtle  brain. 

Bustam  is  fortified  with  walls  of  dried  clay, 
crowned  by  a  curious  series  of  sharp  points  pierced 
with  holes.  The  colour  and  material  of  this  and 
all  other  Persian  towns,  make  them  seem  a  part  of 
the  earth  in  a  way  buildings  never  do  in  other 
lands.  At  the  city-gate,  a  nimiber  of  men  are 
waiting  to  receive  us  and  lead  the  way  to  the 
house  where  we  are  to  lunch.  We  pass  through 
narrow  impaved  streets,  enclosed  by  high  walls  of 
dried  mud;  the  lack  of  houses  with  visible  doors 
and  windows,  and  the  complete  absence  of  all 
signs  of  domestic  life,  create  in  this  and  in  all 
Oriental  cities  a  secret  and  mysterious  atmosphere 
that  no  Occidental,  who  has  not  visited  the  East, 


i88      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

can  conceive.  When  the  house  is  reached,  the 
entire  company  seats  itself  on  chairs  around  a 
long  table;  there  then  ensues  one  of  those  inter- 
minable waits,  during  which  my  inability  to 
converse  without  an  interpreter,  makes  me  hor- 
ribly ill  at  ease.  The  chief  notability  finally  ar- 
rives; an  elderly  man — looking  as  though  he  had 
just  stepped  out  of  a  miniatiu-e — with  keen  eyes 
and  sharp  features,  that  give  him  rather  a 
distinguished  air.  He  is  wearing  a  spotless 
white  turban,  and  a  long  cloak  lined  with  fur, 
over  an  under  robe  of  lavender  grey;  and  leans 
slightly  on  a  cane.  A  most  elaborate  lunch  is 
served  on  the  floor  of  the  next  room,  dvuing 
which  I  find  the  habit  of  slinging  food  into 
the  mouth  and  gulping  it  with  frequent  eructa- 
tions somewhat  trying.  Notwithstanding  this, 
I  have  nowhere  been  treated  with  more  perfect 
consideration. 

When  the  meal  is  ended,  the  entire  party  starts 
out  to  show  me  the  town,  with  the  greater  part  of 
the  inhabitants  following  us  in  silence  to  watch 
that  unusual  animal — a  foreigner.  We  first  visit 
the  picturesque  ruins  of  an  old  mosque,  with  a 
most  curiously  built  tower,  whose  former  use  I  am 
completely  unable  to  ascertain.  This  inability  to 
converse  or  make  enquiries  is  extremely  trying, 
since  nothing  can  be  extracted  from  the  broken 
phrases  of  an  interpreter,  who  only  knows  the 
English  required  in  travelling.  The  view  from  the 
mosque-roof  over  the  house-walls  to  the  Shrine  of 


TEC  -  ART  STUDIOS.  Inc. 


The  Burial-Place  of  Bayazid  from  the  Mosque  Roof,  Bustam 


A  Group  of  Notabilities,  Bustam 


A  Tower  beside  the  Mosque,  Bustam 


Watching  a  Firangi  at  the  Tomb  of  Bdyazid,  Bustim 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  189 

Bayazid,  with  its  enamelled  cones  shining  in  the 
sun  beside  the  curious  minaret,  is  very  picturesque. 
A  few  leafless  trees  make  a  tracery  of  soft  grey; 
and  earth,  houses,  and  distant  hills,  are  all  a 
golden  brown  under  the  various  greys  and  pearl 
of  clouds  idling  across  a  sunny  sky. 

The  shrine  is  a  small,  half-ruinous  group  of 
buildings  enclosed  by  a  wall  of  mud  bricks,  out  of 
which  four  grated  apertures  peer  like  eyes.  It  is 
dominated  by  two  cones  covered  with  falling  tiles 
— one  of  which  has  its  metal  finial  rakishly  bent  to 
one  side — and  an  elaborately  patterned  minaret, 
that  sways  visibly  when  a  man  climbs  to  the  top 
and  rocks  backwards  and  forwards.  I  have  great 
difficulty  discovering  in  which  of  these  places 
Bayazid  is  supposed  to  be  buried;  but  decide  it 
must  be  on  a  roof  where  a  comparatively  modem 
alabaster  slab  has  been  erected.  I  am  also  shown 
a  dark  cell,  where  the  saint  is  supposed  to  have 
remained  in  prayer.  If  he  ever  used  it,  he  must 
have  had  the  habits  of  a  mediaeval  ascetic  or  a 
Hindu  fakir.  While  I  am  wandering  about  the 
precincts,  all  the  boys  and  young  men  perch  on 
top  of  a  ruined  wall  like  crows,  eying  me  in 
silence.  After  passing  through  a  picturesque 
court  in  the  old  fortress,  where  three  trees 
mirror  their  unbudding  boughs  in  a  pool  of 
rain  water;  I  am  shown  a  pleasure  garden  of 
the  Amir's,  which  is  truly  Persian,  inasmuch  as 
the  pavilion  is  falling  to  pieces  although  not  yet 
completed. 


190     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

March  lo*.^ 
As  my  escort  will  not  accept  tips  when  I  am 
their  master's  guest,  I  sent  Aghajan  yesterday  for 
the  chief  of  the  suwdrs  who  accompanied  me  into 
Shahrud  from  the  village  where  they  had  awaited 
my  arrival  two  days,  and  requested  him  to  give 
them  a  feast  last  night  at  my  expense.  With  the 
probable  connivance  of  Aghajan,  the  head  suwdr 
announced  that  he  had  disbursed  what  seemed  for 
these  parts  a  very  large  sum.  I  would  have  paid 
the  amount  with  pleasure,  if  certain  the  men  got 
the  benefit  of  it;  the  chances  are  that  most  of  it 
found  its  way  into  the  pockets  of  Aghajan  and 
the  head  suwdr.  It  having  been  suggested  that  the 
one  thing  which  would  make  the  men  entirely 
happy,  was  arrack — a  bad  kind  of  brandy — I 
procured  some  from  a  dirty  Jew  after  quite  a 
search;  on  which  they  imdoubtedly  got  gloriously 
drunk,  despite  their  religion.  I  was  asked  to  come 
and  permit  the  men  to  drink  my  health,  but  could 
not  do  so,  as  the  Governor  came  to  visit  me  just 
at  that  time.  We  had  a  long  and  rather  interesting 
conversation — despite  difficulties — in  the  course 
of  which  he  expressed  feelings  of  particular 
cordiality  toward  America.  Much  of  this  was  no 
more  than  politeness;  yet  I  have  reason  to  infer 
that  Mr.  Shuster  made  a  profound  impression  in 
Persia,  and  that — as  a  countryman  of  his — I  am 
received  with  especial  courtesy.  The  Governor 
told  me  that  the  Russian  agent  here  had  been 
making  searching  enquiries  about  me  since  my 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  191 

arrival ;  and  went  on  to  express  the  deepest  sorrow 
for  the  Russian  seizure  of  Northern  Persia,  as  well 
as  a  hatred  of  Russia,  in  which  he  assured  me  the 
very  children  participate.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
judge,  but  the  Persians  impress  me  as  a  race 
hopelessly  decadent,  and  I  cannot  believe  them 
able  to  administer  their  own  affairs  decently;  nor 
can  I,  the  world  being  what  it  is,  blame  the  Great 
Powers  for  acting  as  they  have;  nevertheless, 
Persia — exploited  by  her  children  and  by  for- 
eigners alike,  while  her  autonomy  has  become  no 
more  than  a  shabby  fiction — is  certainly  in  a 
position  between  the  nether  and  upper  mill-stones 
of  Great  Britain  and  Russia,  as  pitiable  as  it  is 

iniquitous While    the    Governor    was 

still  here,  the  Persian  equivalent  of  curfew  was 
blown  at  ten  o'clock  on  a  very  tinny  trumpet,  by  a 
man  standing  on  the  terrace  of  this  house.  The 
laws  of  the  Prophet  forbidding  the  use  of  wine, 
seem  perennially  ineffectual;  both  nights  since  I 
have  been  here,  one  of  the  servants  has  been 
drunk;  about  three  o'clock  this  morning,  he 
pounded  on  the  door  and  yelled  to  be  let  in — • 
loudly  enough  to  raise  the  dead  as  well  as  myself. 
The  carriage  in  which  I  leave  Shahrud  at  about 
eight  o'clock,  is  even  more  remarkable  and  far 
more  ramshackle  than  the  one  in  which  I  ventured 
to  start  from  Mashhad.  It  is  a  kind  of  lumbering 
omnibus,  which  a  partition  divides  in  two;  the 
front  half  has  seats  facing  forwards  and  backwards, 
but  those  in  the  rear  run  sideways.    The  roof  is  so 


192      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

low,  my  head  almost  touches  it  when  seated,  and 
the  whole  affair  is  in  the  last  stages  of  decay — 
but  the  springs  seem  solid.  Some  of  the  luggage  is 
lashed  on  the  roof,  and  the  rest  piled  up  in  the 
rear  compartment  with  "the  artist"  sitting  on  top 
of  it;  while  Said  and  I  occupy  very  close  quarters 
in  front,  where  a  partition  behind  the  driver  makes 
it  impossible  to  see  straight  ahead.  The  horses  are 
a  little  better  than  usual,  carrying  us  along  at  a 
good  pace  over  what  was  the  last  stage  of  Alexan- 
der's march  in  pursuit  of  Darius — "the  road  that 
was  desert  for  lack  of  water,"  and  desert  it  has 
remained  to  this  day;  a  great  plain  with  hardly  a 
rise  or  fall,  dust-coloured  and  strewn  with  rocks. 
On  either  side  it  is  hemmed  in  by  a  low  range  of 
hills  that  has — in  one  place — been  half  washed 
away,  until  nothing  is  left  but  a  rufous  cliff  turning 
sanguine  near  the  crest.  At  the  first  relay,  a  large 
village  stretches  away  in  every  direction,  with 
leafless  trees  rising  above  the  earthen  walls,  and  a 
few  spots  of  white  or  rosy  haze  showing  where 
early  fruit  trees  are  in  bloom — the  first  I  have 
seen. 

The  scenery  is  now  much  like  the  Algerian 
desert,  an  uncultivated  plateau  bordered  by 
pointed  lion-coloured  hills.  A  howling  gale 
springs  up  suddenly,  raging  past  and  making  it 
bitterly  cold — even  when  wearing  two  overcoats, 
one  of  fur.  At  the  midday  halt  the  chai  khdna  is 
too  filthy  to  lunch  in,  so  I  have  to  eat  out-of-doors 
as  best  I  can,  clutching  my  food  lest  the  wind 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  193 

carry  it  off.  Shortly  after  starting,  the  two  mina- 
rets of  Damghan  become  visible.  The  wind  now 
howls  past,  racing  the  dust  across  the  desert  in 
white  clouds.  As  we  near  the  town,  a  band  of 
suwars  suddenly  appears  from  nowhere  behind  the 
carriage,  and  rides  past  saluting.  None  of  these 
Persian  soldiers  or  police  or  whatever  they  really 
are,  have  anything  that  could  possibly  masquerade 
as  a  uniform;  but  several  of  these  particular  men 
are  neatly  dressed  with  quite  a  military  air.  A 
number  have  good  horses;  all  of  them  with  the 
terrible  Persian  bridle  of  Arab  origin,  that  has — 
in  addition  to  an  ordinary  bit — an  iron  ring 
encircling  the  lower  jaw,  which  it  could  easily 
break  if  pulled  hard.  We  all  gallop  along — even 
my  horses  and  driver  being  spurred  on  by  the 
escort — and  reach  Damghan  about  four  o'clock. 

The  road — a  rough  track — leads  between  the 
usual  mud-walls,  frequently  in  ruin.  Once  I 
catch  a  glimpse,  down  a  lane,  of  a  tower  of  golden 
brick  soaring  out  of  rosy  fruit-boughs.  After 
passing  close  to  a  dilapidated  mosque,  with  a  buff 
minaret  of  richly  ornamented  brick  lacking  its 
terminal  cage;  my  escort  halts  the  carriage  and 
leads  me  a  short  distance  to  the  house  prepared 
by  the  Governor's  order.  Entering  through  a 
narrow  vaulted  passage,  I  find  myself  in  a  clean 
bright  courtyard,  in  one  comer  of  which  a  feathery 
clump  of  nacrous  cherry-blossom  sways  over  the 
top  of  the  high  wall,  against  an  azure  sky.  Inside 
the  house  which  forms  one  side  of  the  enclosure, 
13 


194      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

are  two  small  but  very  comfortable  rooms,  quite 
the  pleasantest  I  have  so  far  encountered.  The 
carpets  are  as  usual  good ;  for  these  Persian  rugs — 
although  inferior  to  the  poorest  of  the  old — are 
much  better  than  the  ordinary  carpets  of  Europe. 
I  am  scarcely  settled  when  there  is  a  tramping  of 
numerous  feet  in  the  court,  as  the  Governor 
arrives,  accompanied  by  a  body-guard  of  retainers 
and  servants.  He  is  a  fine-looking  man  of  middle 
age,  with  clear-cut  features  and  intelligent  eyes, 
whose  active  and  martial  bearing  impresses  me  at 
once.  He  speaks  no  French  (the  foreign  language 
most  used  in  Persia)  so  we  are  obliged  to  struggle 
with  an  interpreter.  After  a  long  wait  for  the 
indispensable  tea,  we  start  to  visit  the  town.  A 
splendid  dark  iron-grey  stallion  is  waiting  for  me, 
with  an  absolutely  new  Cossack  saddle  of  black 
leather.  These  saddles  are  fitted  with  a  small 
leather  cushion,  very  thick  and  hard,  and  are 
doubtless  excellent  for  those  accustomed  to  use 
them.  This  being  my  first  experience,  I  find  it 
impossible  to  keep  my  seat,  sliding  about  in  a 
ludicrous  way,  and  almost  breaking  my  spine 
against  a  hard  spur  which  projects  at  the  back 
of  the  saddle.  The  Governor  is  mounted  on  a 
beautiful  tan-coloured  mule,  with  yellow  velvet 
saddle  and  saddle-cloths ;  its  silky  coat  and  ability 
to  gallop  as  fast  as  a  horse,  betoken  fine  breeding. 

We  first  ride  to  the  citadel,  an  agglomeration  of 
ruinous  mud- walls,  enclosing — on  a  lower  level — 
what  once  were  dwellings,  in  the  centre  of  which  a 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  195 

house  for  the  Governor  has  recently  been  built. 
There  are  picturesque  views  where  the  walls  have 
fallen,  revealing  the  mound  on  which  the  citadel 
stands,  sloping  down  to  a  moat  still  filled  with 
water.  In  one  direction,  looking  through  a 
crumbling  frame  of  clay-walls,  a  slender  golden 
brown  minaret  rises  skyward,  far  away  across  the 
flat  roofs  and  low  mud- walls  of  the  town,  now 
beautified  by  a  profusion  of  delicate  fruit  blos- 
soms— ^white  or  faint  pink — growing  everywhere. 
On  the  other  side,  the  tomb  of  an  Imam  Zada 
rises  close  at  hand,  a  building  of  pale  yellow  brick 
surmounted  by  a  very  pointed  dome;  while  to 
northward  the  distant  shrine  of  another  saint 
is  easily  to  be  distinguished  across  the  plain. 
Wherever  I  look  there  are  innumerable  fiat  domes 
of  mud  breaking  through  roof  terraces — like  air 
bubbles  on  the  surface  of  a  muddy  pond;  for  in 
countries  where  wood  is  too  rare  to  use  in  ordinary 
building,  the  rudest  hovel  has  to  be  vaulted.  Far 
away  the  deep  blue  mountains  are  draped  with 
passing  clouds,  while  the  sun — sinking  fast  toward 
their  crests — casts  a  mellow  glow,  falling  peacefully 
on  all  things  like  a  caress. 

Somewhere  on  the  uninhabited  plain,  across 
which  I  am  gazing  in  this  quiet  golden  light,  lay 
two  thousand  years  ago  the  great  city  with  the 
boastful  name,  Hecatompylos ;  where  the  Mace- 
donian celebrated  decisive  victory  over  the  quon- 
dam lord  of  all  Persia,  that  Darius  whose  long 
flight  across  his  realm  found  an  end  in  death  by 


196     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

treachery  not  far  from  here.  Memory  of  this  and 
a  love  for  sonorous  syllables,  must  have  prompted 
Milton,  when  he  wrote: — 

"Ecbatana  her  structure  vast  there  shows, 
And  Hecatompylos  her  hundred  gates." 

The  rubble  amid  which  I  am  standing,  was  also 
once  the  centre  of  an  important  town,  harried  and 
razed  by  one  ferocious  conqueror  after  another; 
for  Damghan's  blood-befouled  name  occurs  fre- 
quently in  the  sinister  chronicles  of  barbarity. 
A  hundred  years  after  Alexander  had  become  no 
more  than  a  sounding  name,  the  plain  of  Damghan 
re-echoed  with  the  tramping  of  troops  lead  by 
Antiochus  the  Great;  ten  centuries  later,  another 
army  swept  past  these  walls  to  its  defeat;  then  in 
rapid  succession,  atrocity  upon  atrocity  laid  the 
city  waste.  The  hordes  of  that  great  Mongol,  the 
world-compelling  Chingiz  Khan,  for  eight  years 
filled  the  land  with  terror;  and  outside  these  very 
walls  the  "Scourge  of  God"— Timur  Lang — 
built  those  monstrous  towers  of  human  heads 
already  mentioned.  Here  Zaki  Khan,  in  the 
eighteenth  century,  made  a  garden  of  his  captives 
lashed  to  tree-boughs  and  buried  alive  in  the 
ground,  with  green  leaves  fluttering  over  their 
agon3^  Here  the  blind  grandson  of  that  Nadir 
Shah  who  laid  imperial  Delhi  in  ruin,  died  from 
the  effects  of  a  crown  filled  with  boiling_  oil, 
forced  on  his  head  by  the  cruel  eunuch  Agha 


The  Citadel  of  Bustam 


Late  Afternoon,  from  the  Fortress,  Damghan 


»  ( 


\r>^ 


The  Ribat  of  Anushlrwan 
(A  fortified  resting-place  built  by  Anushlrwan,  better  known  as  Chosroe  the  Just) 


The  ShSh's  Mosque,  Samnan 


^v-_o^ 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  197 

Muhammad  Khan,  foimder  of  the  still  reigning 
Persian  dynasty.  Here  was  bom  that  superb 
Shah,  Fath  'All,  the  report  of  whose  splendour 
spread  through  Europe.  Nothing  in  the  whole 
world  brings  the  futility  of  all  existence  more 
keenly  home  than  these  abandoned  plains,  where 
life  has  ebbed  from  cities  once  filled  with  the 
hum  of  human  occupations  and  the  clamour  of 
great  monarchs,  leaving  nothing  more  than  a  few 
mounds  that  only  serve  to  furnish  learned  archae- 
ologists with  material  for  volumes  of  ponderous 

dispute 

We  next  ride  out  of  the  town  to  the  gates,  where 
the  Governor's  carriage  overtakes  us — a  really 
smart  landau  drawn  by  an  excellent  pair  of  horses. 
In  this  we  gallop — at  times  on  a  dead  run — across 
the  plain  to  a  curious  ruin,  which  the  Governor 
tells  me  formed  part  of  an  old  city,  the  site  of  whose 
gates  is  marked  by  two  mounds  hard  at  hand.  On 
the  way  back,  there  is  a  fine  view  of  the  town:  a 
low  wall  of  dried  earth  (preceded  by  the  saint's 
mausoleum)  over  which  roofs  and  domes  show 
amid  a  profusion  of  early  blossoms,  giving  charm 
to  what  otherwise  would  be  a  commonplace  sight. 
Aided  by  the  spell  which  a  declining  sun  lays  upon 
all  it  touches,  the  nearby  mountains  lend  majesty 
to  Damghan — the  first  attractive  town  I  have 

seen  in   Persia On  entering  the  city, 

we  dash  through  the  narrow  bazar — preceded  by 
mounted  suwdrs — at  such  a  break-neck  speed  as 
makes  me  fear  lest  we  kill  one  of  the  scattering 


198     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

vendors,  or  be  ourselves  dashed  to  pieces  against 
the  walls.  Fading  light,  which  glazes  the  clay 
houses  and  waving  branches,  makes  me  loth  to  go 
indoors;  but  politeness  requires  it,  since  the  Gov- 
ernor leads  the  way  to  my  rooms  with  martial 
stride. 

After  nearly  two  hours  of  conversation,  really 
interesting  despite  the  difficulty  of  carrying  it  on, 
dinner  is  brought  in  with  a  certain  confusion,  since 
the  Governor  has  ordered  it  served  in  European 
style  on  a  table  and  in  courses.  Aghajan,  although 
a  little  too  officious,  really  saves  the  day  by 
showing  the  servants  how  this  should  be  done. 
The  meal  is  excellent,  but  the  Governor  only 
makes  a  pretence  of  touching  a  dish  now  and  then 
out  of  politeness,  as  he  intends  dining  at  home  at 
some  Persian  mid-nocturnal  hour.  Nowhere  have 
I  seen  a  person  turn  his  household  upside-down 
and  put  himself  out  to  such  a  degree,  in  order  to 
please  a  guest.    It  is  quintessential  hospitality. 

In  the  course  of  conversation  I  learn  that  the 
Governor  was  bom  in  the  Caucasus,  I  believe  of 
Persian  ancestors;  and  came  to  Persia  during  the 
Revolution,  when  he  was  made  a  prisoner  by  the 
Amir  X.,  whose  service  he  then  entered.  He  is 
the  first  active  virile  personality  I  have  met  in 
Persia,  and  impresses  me  by  his  force  and  in- 
telligence. He  discusses  European  politics,  and — 
to  my  great  surprise — makes  one  or  two  well- 
informed  enquiries  about  the  relations  between  the 
United  States  and  Mexico.     He  inevitably  men- 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  199 

tions  Persia's  grief  at  Russian  invasion;  stating 
that  Persians  will  never  forgive  the  bombardment 
of  the  shrine  at  Mashhad,  and  the  hanging  of  the 
mullds  at  Tabriz — a  city  the  Russians  have  made 
"unclean."  He  tells  me  that  the  Russians  have 
illegally  seized  fertile  lands  belonging  to  Persians 
around  Astarabad;  and  insists  that  when  the 
Persians  are  able  to  drive  the  Russians  out,  God 
will  forgive  anything  they  may  do  to  their  oppres- 
sors. To  my  surprise  again,  he  is  interested  in 
antiquities,  giving  me  curious  details  about 
excavations  around  Damghan. 


March  ii*^ 
Last  night  the  Governor  courteously  declared 
his  intention  of  escorting  me  in  person  as  far  as  a 
property  belonging  to  the  Amir,  where  he  wishes 
to  offer  me  luncheon.  He  was  to  have  come  at 
seven  o'clock,  but  it  is  eight  when  a  clattering  of 
attendants  announces  his  arrival.  While  taking 
tea,  he  holds  a  levee  of  retainers.  When  waiting, 
the  servants  stand  close  to  the  wall  with  head  and 
shoulders  slightly  bowed,  never  failing  to  hold  one 
hand  with  the  other — perhaps  a  survival  of  the 
days  when  Persian  etiquette  required  that  hands 
and  feet  should,  as  a  sign  of  respect,  always  be 
covered  by  the  hem  of  the  robe.  Whenever  the 
Governor  has  to  write,  he — like  all  Persians — 
holds  the  sheet  of  paper  in  his  left  hand,  without 
resting  it  on  something  as  we  should  have  to  do. 


200     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

Whether  this  is  the  cause  or  an  effect  of  their 
delicate  writing,  I  do  not  know;  but  Persian  script 
is  far  more  lightly  traced  and  minute  than  that  of 
the  Arabs Everyone,  the  Governor  in- 
cluded, goes  armed  in  these  parts;  he  carries, 
slimg  across  one  shoulder,  a  large  Mauser  pistol 
in  a  wonderful  case  handsomely  ornamented  with 
gold,  which  is  arranged  to  fasten  to  the  revolver 
and  act  as  a  stock,  thus  forming  a  small  rifle 
supposedly  able  to  carry  a  thousand  metres.  The 
Governor's  suwdrs  are  all  armed  in  the  same  way, 
and  are  smarter  than  any  I  have  yet  seen;  I  am 
told  that  he  arms,  feeds,  and  pays,  five  hundred 
out  of  his  own  pocket. 

The  Governor  proceeds  on  foot  to  his  carriage, 
which  is  waiting  outside  the  gate,  whilst  I  go  to 
the  bazar  to  take  my  omnibus.  When  I  arrive, 
there  are  over  a  hundred  people  waiting  to  see  me 
start,  lined  up  along  the  street  and  in  tiers  on  the 
sloping  bank;  they  are  quiet  and  respectful,  making 
no  audible  comment,  but  I  find  their  presence 
rather  disconcerting.  Said  tells  me  that  when  he 
climbed  onto  the  roof  of  the  carriage  to  attach  the 
luggage — which  Aghajan  cannot  be  trusted  to  do — 
their  astonishment  at  seeing  a  European  thus 
engaged,  was  intense.  Outside  the  city,  the 
Governor  is  waiting  for  me  in  his  carriage — this 
time  a  victoria.  Taking  my  place  beside  him,  we 
start,  surrounded  by  suwdrs.  The  driver  of  my 
diligence  insists  on  keeping  ahead  of  us  despite 
my  frantic  signs  to  Aghajan;  Said,  being  in  the 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  201 

forward  compartment,  cannot  see  what  is  happen- 
ing. Finally  the  Governor  orders  his  coachman  to 
pass  it;  but  the  moment  we  come  abreast,  the 
driver  whips  up  his  horses  and  off  they  gallop, 
faster  and  faster  the  more  we  try  to  get  ahead. 
The  driver  is  perched  on  top,  holding  his  four 
horses  with  outstretched  arms,  while  the  old 
waggon  rolls  from  side  to  side  like  a  ship  in  a  heavy 
sea.  Aghajan  now  begins  to  realise  what  has 
occurred,  but  instead  of  leaning  out  to  shout  to 
the  driver,  jumps  out  of  the  carriage  backward 
and  falls  flat,  skinning  his  hands  and  knees.  Said 
finally  succeeds  in  stopping  the  driver,  who  must 
have  been  possessed  by  a  devil,  since  Persians 
are  usually  abject  in  their  respect  for  those  in 
authority.  Fortunately  the  Governor  is  only 
amused,  laughing  heartily  at  what  was  certainly 
a  most  ludicrous  scene. 

It  is  a  radiant  morning,  and  the  golden  moun- 
tains tipped  with  snow,  which  stand  guard  over 
Damghan,  glow  as  though  newly  burnished.  The 
clear  keen  air  produces  a  thrill  which  makes  all 
things  charming.  About  ten  we  reach  our  objec- 
tive point,  a  small  village  which  the  Amir's 
property  adjoins.  This  is  a  very  large  rectangle, 
fortified  with  high  walls  of  mud  and  towers  at 
each  comer;  in  the  centre  of  the  front  wall  is  a 
small  two-storeyed  house,  whitewashed  and  with  a 
loggia  over  the  gateway  giving  admission  to  the 
enclosure.  This  villa  is  to  be  used  as  a  residence 
for  the  Amir  whenever  he  chooses  to  come ;  while  a 


202      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

hamlet  of  mud  houses  is  in  process  of  building 
inside  the  walls — apparently  model  dwellings  for 
workmen  of  these  parts.  In  front  of  the  walls 
beggarly  labourers  are  digging  what  will  event- 
ually be  an  orchard.  When  we  pass,  there  are 
choruses  of  "  Ya!  'All!"  which  I  take  to  be  in  the 
Governor's  honour;  but  continual  repetition  proves 
that  they  are  merely  encouraging  each  other  by 
invoking  the  martyr  khalif  whom  all  Shi'ites 
revere. 

From  the  roof-terraces  there  is  a  view  across  the 
plain,  dotted  as  far  as  the  first  mountain  spurs  with 
fortified  villages,  while  far  away  lie  the  ruins  of  a 
town  destroyed  by  Afghans.  An  officer  of  the 
Amir's  household — just  arrived  by  post — and  the 
chief  of  the  suwdrs  join  us  at  the  luncheon  cloth 
spread  on  the  floor.  There  are  knives  and  forks 
for  me,  but  the  others — including  the  European- 
ised  Governor — eat  with  their  fingers,  gulping 
food  with  a  rapidity  I  have  not  seen  equalled; 
this  produces  loud  belching,  which  there  is  no 
attempt  to  conceal.  About  midday  I  take  leave 
of  my  most  hospitable  host,  and  start  with  a  large 
escort.  After  the  next  relay,  where  they  leave  me, 
I  discover  a  suwar  comfortably  ensconced  in  the 
rear  of  the  carriage  with  Aghajan;  it  appears  he 
was  ordered  to  accompany  me,  but  having  a  lame 
horse,  decided  to  do  so  in  this  way.  As  he  is  only  a 
nuisance,  it  is  rather  annoying  to  have  his  added 
weight  in  the  already  heavily  laden  carriage.  The 
road  now  begins  to  mount  steadily  toward  the 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  203 

pass  of  Ahuwan,  between  low  hills  and  across  one 
of  those  deadly  plains,  the  mere  record  of  which 
fatigues.  About  five-thirty  we  reach  the  summit  of 
the  defile  which  takes  its  name  (Gazelles)  from  a 
legend  connected  with  the  kindliness  of  the 
Imam  Rida.  In  a  depression  just  below  the 
highest  point  are  a  few  hovels,  a  brick  caravanserai 
attributed  to  Shah  'Abbas,  and  the  ruins  of  the 
Ribat  of  Anushlrwan.  This  was  a  fortified  resting- 
place,  built  in  the  sixth  century  of  our  era  by 
the  great  vSasanian  monarch,  Anushlrwan — better 
known  as  Khusraw  (Chosroes) — who  forced  the 
Roman  Empire,  in  the  person  of  Justinian,  to 
pay  tribute,  expelled  the  Abyssinians  from  Arabia, 
and  raised  to  its  apogee  the  power  of  Persia.  The 
fact  that  his  endeavours  to  render  justice  and 
improve  the  condition  of  the  poor,  should  have 
gained  for  him  the  appellation  of  the  Just,  despite 
his  having  caused  all  his  brothers  and  uncles — 
not  to  mention  a  hundred  thousand  heretics — to 
be  put  to  death,  affords  an  interesting  glimpse  of 
epochs,  whose  conditions  we  can  to-day  scarce 
conceive.  Of  his  celebrated  fortress  nothing 
remains  but  a  rectangular  mass  of  yellow  walls 
and  towers,  built  of  earth  and  stone,  crumbling 
to  ruin  and  devoid  of  any  but  archaeological 
interest.  Nevertheless,  standing  on  this  high 
barren  pass  watching  the  chill  rays  of  a  late 
afternoon  sun  slant  toward  their  decay;  it 
is  curious  to  reflect  on  all  that  it  must  have 
seen   pass    during    thirteen    hundred    years;    at 


204     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

least    it    serves    as    a    reminder  that  in  Sa'di's 
•words: — 

"  Many  are  they,  once  famed,  beneath  the  ground, 
That  left  no  record  of  their  little  worth, 
And  the  old  corse  surrendered,  earth  to  earth, 
Was  so  consumed  that  not  a  bone  is  found. 
The  glories  of  King  Nusherwan  remain, 
And  time  remembers  his  munificence." 

When  we  start  again  the  sun  is  still  bright 
although  westering  fast ;  but  in  the  east,  the  magni- 
fied disk  of  a  full  moon,  cold  and  white,  has 
already  begun  ascending  the  pathways  of  the  sky. 
As  we  drive  along  the  road — now  rising,  now 
falling — the  moon  grows  golden,  moving  through 
the  stainless  blue  above  lion-coloured  hills 
strangely  formed  like  crouching  beasts.  Then  the 
sun  disappears,  but  its  rays  still  dominate  the 
moon,  leaving  the  Occident  aglow  with  saflron 
that  fades  upward  into  lavender.  From  verge  to 
zenith  the  lucent  sky  has  that  curious  effect — 
occurring  only  at  sunset — when  it  appears  not  so 
much  a  vault  of  solid  colour  as  a  luminous  me- 
dium, through  whose  tremulous  depth  sight  seems 
to  plunge  afar.  Then  the  last  reflections  slowly 
pale  before  the  moon's  victorious  advance,  and  the 
stars  troop  round  the  now  refulgent  orb.  Very 
soon  the  scenery  is  half  hidden,  half  revealed  by 
that  dim  radiance  which  lies  on  all  things,  con- 
cealing the  ugly  and  gracing  with  mystery  the 
commonest  of  objects. 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  205 

When  we  reach  the  place  where  the  Governor  of 
Damghan  advised  me  to  spend  the  night,  there  is 
nothing  but  a  particularly  filthy  tea-house  with  a 
single  room  full  of  natives.  There  is  nothing  to 
do  but  try  to  reach  Samnan  to-night;  fortunately 
it  is  almost  as  light  as  day,  and  not  too  cold. 
Rattling  through  the  starry  night  down  the  road 
which  descends  two  thousand  five  hundred  feet 
from  Ahuwan  to  Samnan,  is  not  unpleasant. 
After  more  than  two  hours,  the  vague  outlines 
of  the  city  grow  visible  in  the  moon-dusk;  gradu- 
ally they  become  more  distinct,  until  we  pass 
between  high  plaster  posts  set  to  mark  the  way, 
and  reach  an  open  square  outside  the  walls,  about 
half -past  ten.  As  the  Amir  X.  is  not  expecting  me 
until  to-morrow,  there  is  no  one  to  meet  me, 
nor  any  state  entry  preceded  by  a  mace  as  at 
Shahrud — which  is  rather  a  relief. 

Aghajan  goes  off  to  announce  my  arrival,  and 
soon  returns  with  the  Amir's  head-servant  carry- 
ing a  lantern,  who  shows  us  the  way  to  where  I 
am  to  lodge.  Driving  through  the  city  gates  and 
down  a  broad  avenue  between  high  walls  hiding 
everything,  we  stop  at  the  entrance  to  what  I  am 
told  is  the  Governor's  palace.  Entering  by  a 
dark  passage,  I  find  myself  in  a  large  courtyard 
bathed  in  moonlight,  where  a  few  bare  trees  and 
blossomy  shrubs  grow  in  neglected  beds  around  a 
central  pool.  A  large  portico  with  four  white 
columns  at  the  head  of  a  flight  of  steps,  forms  the 
central  motive  on  one  side  of  the  court.    Behind 


206     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  ^ULF 

this  colonnade  is  a  single  room,  into  which  I  km 
ushered.  Nothing  could  be  more  characteristic 
of  Persia;  by  the  dim  light  of  two  candles,  I  see 
an  enormous  room — as  big  as  the  entrance  hall  of 
some  old  abbey — with  a  wooden  ceiling  twenty 
feet  or  more  high.  A  fine  carpet  covers  the  floor, 
and  there  are  three  or  four  gaudy  chairs,  gilded 
and  covered  with  red  velvet;  but  the  walls  are 
whitewashed,  and  the  openings  in  the  rough 
wooden  window-doors  have  neither  glass  nor 
anything  else  to  keep  out  air.  At  either  end  of  this 
imposing  apartment  is  a  tiny  room  with  unswept 
floors,  walls  scrawled  with  pencils,  and  doors  also 
without  glass.  In  one  of  these  my  bed  is  set  up 
and  a  fire  lighted.  Although  I  do  not  wish  to  eat, 
the  servants  insist  on  serving  a  meal;  after  an 
interminable  wait,  a  throng  of  dishes  arrives  from 
the  Amir's  own  house,  nearly  a  mile  away,  and  is 
duly  set  out  on  the  floor.  When  hot  they  might  be 
palatable;  in  their  present  gelid  condition  they 
are  quite  nasty,  and  sitting  on  the  floor  alone  in 
this  vast  dim  room,  with  gusts  of  wind  sailing 
across,  endeavouring  to  force  down  some  of  the 
strange  viands,  under  the  eyes  of  Persian  servants 
watching  every  move, — is  a  painful  experience. 


March  12*.'' 
My  enforced  banquet  of  chilled  food  was  too 
much  for  me ;  I  was  violently  ill  all  night,  and  this 
morning  can  hardly  raise  my  head  long  enough  to 


Court  of  the  Shah's  Mosque,  Samnan 
(.It  is  most  unusual  to  be  allowed  to  enter  a  mosque  in  Persia) 


•^-^^^^-^ 


Tomb  of  an  Imam  Zada,  Samnan 


Minaret  of  the  Assembly  Mosque,  Samnan 

A  fine  specimen  of  the  terminal  cages,  most 

of  which  have  been  destroyed 


The  Governor's  Palace,  Samnan 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  207 

dress  for  the  Amir's  visit.  He  arrives  about  ten 
o'clock — a  tall  heavily-built  man,  still  young  but 
very  stout,  with  an  active  bearing  despite  a 
paunch  not  unworthy  of  Falstaff.  To  my  relief 
he  speaks  French  easily  and  quite  well.  He  tells 
me  about  his  exile  in  Europe,  and  how  he  intended 
entering  the  French  army,  when  the  late  Shah 
telegraphed  to  the  Persian  Ambassador  that  if  the 
Amir  entered  the  French  service,  he  would  bom- 
bard the  Amir's  home,  kill  all  his  family,  and  dis- 
miss the  Ambassador.  The  Amir  goes  on  to  say 
that  he  did  not  care  about  his  family's  danger,  but 
abandoned  his  project  out  of  consideration  for  the 
Ambassador,  whose  debts — due  to  the  non-pay- 
ment of  his  salary — ^would  have  meant  ruin,  had 
he  lost  his  post.  He  next  gives  me  details  of  his 
sojourn  in  Constantinople,  directing  operations 
against  Muhammad  'All  Shah,  and  of  his  return 
to  Persia  on  the  Shah's  deposition ;  dwelling  on  the 
bravery  he  displayed  against  rebels,  when  govern- 
ing the  town  of  Z.  He  also  mentions  that  he  has 
heard  that  Mr.  Shuster  has  spoken  ill  of  him  in  his 
book;  but  says,  this  is  due  to  false  reports  cir- 
culated by  his  enemies,  of  which  he  was  never 
able  to  disabuse  Mr.  Shuster's  mind.  He  finally 
refers  to  the  way  in  which  the  present  government 
fails  to  pay  the  troops  under  his  orders  (who  are 
for  that  reason  unmanageable),  while  it  continues 
expecting  him  to  maintain  security.  In  all  he 
says  the  Amir  "blows  his  o\nti  trumpet"  without 
shame  or  hesitation.     This  interview  throws  a 


2o8     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

vivid  light  on  Persian  character,  when  I  remember 
the  evidence  of  his  cowardice  recorded  in  the 
British  Blue-Book,  and  recall  Mr.  Shuster's 
statement  that  "the  Amir  ....  was  a  man 
whose  general  reputation  would  warrant  a  long 
sentence  in  any  workhouse."  My  opinion  of  the 
Amir's  character  does  not,  however,  diminish  my 
gratitude  for  his  hospitality  and  the  unfailing 
courtesy  with  which  I  have  everywhere  been 
received,  thanks  to  his  orders.  When  he  is  ready 
to  leave,  I  can  only  make  my  excuses,  stating  that 
I  am  too  ill  to  go  out,  and  crawl  back  to  bed  for  the 
rest  of  the  day. 


March  13*^ 
This  morning  the  Amir  sends  his  head-servant 
to  show  me  the  city.  I  find  that  the  avenue 
skirting  the  Governor's  palace,  is  guarded  at  each 
end  by  a  gateway  decorated  with  mosaic  and 
curious  pinnacles  bulging  out  near  the  top  like  the 
lotus  capitals  of  Egypt.  One  of  the  gates  has  a 
gorgeous  modem  mosaic  of  Rustam  slaying  the 
White  Devil,  a  formidable  giant  whose  body  is 
tattooed  with  elaborate  patterns;  while  both  of 
them  are  enlivened  by  mosaics  of  soldiers  with 
foolishly  fierce  expressions.  Passing  through  the 
bazars  and  an  open  square — where  a  mounte- 
bank is  preparing  to  swallow  glass, — ^we  reach  the 
Mosque  of  Path  'Ali  Shah.  To  my  stirprise  I  am 
taken  into  the  court,  contrary  to  the  custom  which 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  209 

forbids  all  foreigners  access  to  mosques;  but  it 
appears  that  the  mullds  of  Samnan  are  singularly 
tolerant,  and  have  even  invited  a  Christian 
missionary  to  address  the  faithful  in  the  mosque. 
Little  attention  is  paid  me,  and  no  visible  objec- 
tion made  to  my  presence  or  to  my  taking  photo- 
graphs. The  court  is  large  and  clean,  surrounded 
by  arcades  with  a  lofty  pavilion  in  the  centre  of 
each  side,  two  being  much  more  important  than 
the  others.  The  architecture — of  pale  buff  brick 
with  coloured  designs — is  good,  the  elaborate 
vaulting  of  the  great  niches  ingenious,  and  the 
general  effect  imposing.  From  the  roof  there  is  a 
lovely  view,  across  mud-walls  overhung  with 
newly  blossomed  fruit-trees  to  ruddy  mountains 
capped  with  snow.  Beyond  the  house-roofs  hard 
at  hand — domed  like  beavers'  huts — a  great 
chindr  tree,  still  leafless,  rears  its  network  of 
boughs  and  twigs  beside  an  Imam  Zdda's  shrine; 
but  the  most  conspicuous  object  is  the  minaret  of 
the  Assembly  or  Friday  Mosque.  It  is  of  brown 
brick,  completely  covered  with  patterns  in  high 
relief;  and  is  very  slender,  tapering  from,  the  base 
to  the  original  cage  of  fine  wooden  tracery,  which 
is  still  preserved. 

On  returning,  I  learn  that  I  am  lodged  in  the 
palace  of  the  old  gentleman  who  governs  the  town 
imder  the  Amir,  himself  the  governor  of  an  entire 
province.  It  appears  that  Persian  justice  is  done 
here;  for  Said  tells  me  that  during  my  absence 
the  bastinado  was  given  to  a  poor  shrieking  wretch, 
14 


210     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

just  as  in  the  days  of  Haji  Baba,  except  that  they 
struck  his  feet  with  whips  instead  of  rods.  He  ^as 
beaten  for  several  minutes,  and  could  hardly  walk 
when  released.  I  suppose  I  shall  see  a  man 
gached  before  I  leave  this  delectable  country, 
where  they  still  make  human  pillars  of  offenders, 
built  up  with  fresh  plaster,  which  crushes  them  to 

death  in  setting! While  trying  to  eat 

a  luncheon  of  chilled  food,  the  very  sight  of  which 
makes  me  ill,  a  man  appears  on  the  roof  across  the 
court  and  begins  to  chant  his  prayers  in  piercing 
tones.  Were  I  Allah,  my  omniscience  would  grow 
weary  of  listening  to  the  world  resound  with  these 
strident  and  mechanical  ejaculations  of  my  name; 
and  I  should,  in  my  solitude,  almost  hate  these 
continual  reminders  that  there  is  "no  God  but 
Allah." 


March  14*.^ 
It  is  seven  o'clock,  when  I  leave  Samnan  in  a 
carriage  which  the  Amir  has  kindly  sent  to  take  me 
the  first  stage,  with  an  officer  and  eight  men 
escorting  it.  We  start  off  on  the  dead  run — 
which  style  demands  in  Persia — and  all  but  upset 
in  the  ditch  outside  the  gate.  When  I  return  to 
civilisation,  driving  steadily  on  real  roads  in  real 
carriages,  without  a  ragged  escort  galloping  about, 
will — I  fear — seem  monotonous.  At  the  first 
relay,  I  climb  into  my  rattling  diligence  and  start 
across  a  desolate  plain,  occasionally  dotted  with 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  211 

small  towers  of  mud  in  which  the  produce  of  the 
fields  is  stored  against  theft.  About  ten  we  reach 
Lasgird,  where  there  are  no  horses;  so  we  are 
obliged  to  wait  until  those  we  brought,  have  been 
fed  and  rested. 

The  remains  of  this  old  city — which  in  some  form 
dates  back  fifteen  hundred  years — are  extremely 
curious.  The  Turkomen  made  life  a  hazard  in 
these  parts;  wherefore,  to  protect  themselves,  the 
inhabitants  of  Lasgird,  at  a  date  I  do  not  pretend 
to  determine,  built  a  fortress-town  on  an  isolated 
plateau,  in  miniature  not  unlike  those  on  which 
Italian  cities — such  as  Siena — stand.  This  plateau 
was  without  doubt  artificially  made,  since  its 
level  is  not  very  much  higher  than  that  of  the 
plain,  from  which  it  is  separated  by  a  moat  as 
wide  and  deep  as  a  small  valley.  The  clay  cliffs 
must  have  been  a  sufficient  protection  in  them- 
selves, without  fortified  walls  above;  for,  as 
recently  as  six  years  ago,  picturesque  dwellings  of 
dried  clay,  like  the  bluff  they  overhung  with  their 
wooden  balconies,  crowned  the  unbroken  edge  of 
this  plateau-city.  To-day  but  little  is  left  of  them, 
for  the  natives — after  the  manner  of  all  Persians — 
destroy  whatever  time  has  spared.  This  morning 
there  is  a  continuous  rattling  and  thumping  as 
clouds  of  dust  veil  the  cliff,  where  villagers  are 
throwing  the  old  houses  into  the  moat,  to  use 
their  earth  to  enrich  the  fields.  Climbing  the 
narrow  path  guarded  by  a  fortified  gate,  which 
alone  gives  ingress  to  Lasgird,  I  find  myself  in 


212     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

what  looks  like  the  confused  ruins  of  a  gigantic 
bee-hive.  .  .  . 

Nearly  all  the  men  idling  about  the  stable  to 
watch  me,  are  dressed  in  blue;  which — in  shades 
from  pale  cobalt  to  indigo — seems  to  be  the  only 
colour  generally  used  in  this  country,  except 
brown  for  cloaks  and  black  for  the  frock-coats 
of  the  Europeanised.  When  we  finally  start,  the 
country  is  unspeakably  dreary;  endless  plain  with 
low  hills  on  the  one  hand  and,  on  the  other,  hills 
so  creased,  they  look  as  though  created  by  pressing 
them  down  until  forced  into  folds.  They  have 
long  spur-like  claws,  and  vary  in  colour  from  a 
vague  pink  to  stretches  of  ugly  purple-red — the 
shade  of  dried  blood,  where  there  are  stripes  of 
tan  and  white  spots  with  mauve  edges.  The 
whole  range  is  metallic  and  ghastly,  like  the 
calcined  remains  of  a  cataclysm.  Mile  after  mile 
of  plain  strewn  with  rock,  begins  to  work  on  my 
nerves.  The  only  distraction  is  afforded  by  the 
sight  of  a  few  distant  citadels,  like  that  at  Lasgird 
and  like  it  in  ruin.  About  five  o'clock  we  reach  a 
place  called,  I  believe,  'Allabad;  to  my  annoyance 
no  horses  are  to  be  had,  and  I  do  not  dare  start 
after  waiting  for  the  horses  to  rest,  as  the  road  is 
reported  bad  and  there  will  be  no  moon  until  late. 
The  caravanserai  is  more  than  I  can  put  up  with, 
notwithstanding  my  recent  training ;  so  I  persuade 
the  gendarmes — who  are  the  first  of  those  trained 
by  Swedish  officers  we  have  met — to  give  me  a 
room  in  their  post.    No  food  of  any  sort  can  be 


The  Ruins  of  Lasgird,  the  Fortress  City 


J 


My  Third  Vehicle,  Masshad  to  Tihran 


^^*iim^ 


A  Slight  Interruption  on  a  Khurasan  Road 
The  Persian  Post  in  a  Bad  Position 


Aghajan  Fording  a  Stream 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  213 

bought,  so  I  have  to  manage  with  what  is  left 
from  the  luncheon  carried  with  me.  The  gen- 
darmes keep  coming  into  the  room  to  watch  me,  on 
the  pretext  of  fetching  some  of  their  belongings, 
until  I  can  bear  it  no  longer,  and  have  to  ask  them 
— through  Aghajan — to  leave  me  alone.  Really  I 
am  beginning  to  long  to  escape  from  Persia;  for  so 
far,  there  has  been  nothing  interesting  enough  to 
repay  me  for  the  discomforts  and  annoyances — of 
which  being  unable  even  to  wash  in  privacy,  is  not 
the  least. 


March  15*!* 
When  after  breakfasting  I  step  out  about  six 
o'clock,  it  is  still  a  moon-lit  night  without  sign 
of  dawn.  The  "artist,"  Aghajan,  displays  his 
powers  at  their  best  this  morning;  while  dressing, 
he  assured  me  the  horses  were  ready,  but  I  now 
find  him  sitting  lazily  at  the  door  of  the  tea-house, 
with  not  a  single  horse  in  sight.  This  is  rather  too 
much;  so  I  prod  him  with  my  stick  until  he  gets 
up,  then — without  really  hurting  him — give  him 
a  couple  of  cuts  across  the  legs,  in  the  hope  of 
frightening  him  sufficiently  to  make  him  have  the 
horses  brought  out.  After  a  long  wait,  they  begin 
to  appear  through  the  dusk  between  moonlight 
and  on-coming  day.  The  drivers  harness  them 
with  unusual  slowness,  which  is  maddening,  since 
I  wish  to  make  a  desperate  attempt  to  reach 
fihran  this  evening.    Last  night  the  post-master 


214      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

promised  me  six  horses  to  get  me  across  a  bad 
ford,  if  I  waited  till  morning ;  there  is  not  a  sign  of 
them,  however.  It  is  now  long  after  six  o'clock, 
and  a  dull  red  spot  crawling  toward  us  across  the 
plain,  must  be  the  lantern  of  a  waggon;  if  it  arrive 
before  I  have  started,  there  is  sure  to  be  a  dispute 
about  horses.  Scolding  and  pleading  cannot 
arouse  in  Aghajan  enough  courage  to  make  the 
drivers  bring  out  the  extra  horses.  A  carriage 
drives  up  while  we  are  waiting,  and  realises  my 
worst  fears  by  proving  to  be  the  post,  which  has 
right  of  way.  The  driver  now  flatly  refuses  to 
give  me  extra  horses,  saying  they  are  required  by 
the  post.  In  desperation  I  shake  him  soundly,  as 
that  has  heretofore  proved  efficacious;  this  time 
the  result  is  unexpected,  for  the  man  begins  to 
pick  up  stones  and  throw  them  at  me.  Aghajan  of 
course  stands  by  whimpering,  without  raising  a 
finger;  but  Said  puts  an  end  to  the  bombardment, 
by  jumping  on  the  man  from  the  roof  of  our 
carriage,  where  he  was  fastening  luggage.  Then 
the  most  terrific  row  I  have  yet  seen,  ensues  over 
the  question  as  to  whether  I  am  to  have  any 
horses  or  not.  The  chief  of  the  relay,  drivers, 
post-driver,  post-passengers,  Aghajan,  and  half 
the  village,  scream  and  gesticulate,  while  I  stand 
by,  silent  but  very  combative,  as  I  have  a  right  to 
at  least  four  horses.  I  call  the  chief  of  the  gen- 
darmes over,  but  he  is  of  no  service ;  finally  I  have 
to  agree  to  start  with  four  horses  when  the  post  is 
ready,  which  is  to  lend  me  its  horses  to  ford  the 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  215 

river.  Having  got  up  before  five  o'clock,  I  manage 
to  leave  after  seven — utterly  fatigued  and  ruffled 
by  the  delay  and  dispute,  entirely  due  to  the 
wretched  "artist's"  customary  failure  to  have  the 
carriage  ready. 

It  is  now  full  day  and  radiantly  bright.  About 
eight  we  come  to  a  broad  stream,  now  a  torrent 
more  than  a  foot  deep  raging  between  high  banks. 
After  palavering  and  reconnoitring  without  end, 
the  post — which  first  had  to  be  hauled,  with  the 
aid  of  my  horses,  out  of  the  mud  where  it  had 
stuck — manages  to  cross  safely.  Then  two  horses 
are  ridden  back  and  harnessed  to  my  diligence 
beside  the  other  four;  while  I  stand  on  the  bank  in 
suspense,  it  crosses  slowly,  reeling  from  side  to 
side  with  its  loaded  roof,  and  threatening  to 
capsize  every  second.  When  it  has  reached  the 
bank  without  accident,  horses  are  once  more 
brought  back  for  Said  and  me  to  ride  across,  with 
our  feet  dra^vn  up  to  keep  them  out  of  the  splashing 
water.  This  performance  occupies  almost  an 
hour,  but  the  driver  cannot  be  persuaded  to 
harness  the  horses,  until  I  prod  him  thoroughly 
with  my  stick. 

At  last  we  reach  Qishlaq,  rather  a  large  village 
with  a  detachment  of  neatly  uniformed  gendarmes j 
belonging  to  the  gendarmerie  created  by  Mr. 
Shuster  and  since  organised — with  questionable 
success — by  Swedish  officers.  Their  presence  since 
yesterday  shows  our  proximity  to  Tihran.  For- 
tunately there  are  eight  horses  so  there  is  no 


2i6     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

dispute  as  to  whether  the  post  or  I  shall  take  them. 
While  waiting  here,  the  chief  of  gendarmes — a 
neat  soldierly  young  Persian — enquires  if  I  am 
armed,  and  then  insists  that  I  must  give  up  my 
pistol,  leaving  it  with  him  to  send  on  when  I  have 
secured  the  proper  permit  at  Tihran.  This  I 
flatly  refuse  to  do,  as  I  should  never  see  it  again, 
and  moreover  conditions  are  such  that  I  am  not 
willing  to  travel  unarmed  even  from  here  to  the 
capital ;  fortunately  he  does  not  insist. 

Wliile  leaning  against  the  carriage  in  the  middle 
of  a  very  narrow  street,  filled  with  people  standing 
along  the  walls  and  in  shop  doors, — I  suddenly 
hear  a  shot  hard  at  hand.  Looking  up,  I  see  one 
of  the  gendarmes  standing  with  a  smoking  rifle 
in  a  doorway  a  few  feet  off.  The  horses  are  so 
excited,  my  first  thought  is  that  one  of  them  has 
been  hit,  my  second  that  the  man  has  nm  amok 
and  shot  an  enemy.  Before  I  can  tell  what  has 
happened,  the  gendarme  drops  his  gun,  rushes  up 
to  me,  and  begins  to  moan,  trembling  and  wringing 
his  hands.  Thinking  he  has  gone  mad  and  may 
attack  me,  I  start  to  seize  him — when  I  hear 
groans  on  the  other  side  of  the  carriage,  run  round, 
and  discover  the  poor  bare-legged  fellow  who  was 
harnessing  the  horses,  stretched  on  the  ground 
bleeding  profusely  from  a  wound  in  the  leg. 
Luckily  the  bullet  went  clean  through  the  fleshy 
part  of  the  calf.  It  appears  that  the  gendarme, 
not  knowing  how  to  handle  his  rifle  properly, 
discharged  it  by  mistake.    He  is  standing  here  in 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  217 

ignoble  terror,  gibbering  like  an  idiot.  The  officer 
finally  makes  his  appearance,  and  has  him  led 
away  by  two  of  his  comrades.  As  the  wounded 
man  is  not  seriously  injured,  and  the  officer  has 
summoned  a  doctor,  there  is  nothing  to  do  but 
leave  him  to  the  mercy  of  Persian  surgery. 

From  Qishlaq  the  road  leads  across  the  desert 
to  the  hills  rising  from  the  plain  precipitously — 
like  the  foremost  wave  of  some  molten  flood,  which 
in  prehistoric  times  swept  across  the  country, 
imtil  here  suddenly  solidified.  At  one  or  two 
points  a  jagged  peak  emerges  from  this  immense 
dyke,  which  descending  water  has  ravaged,  until 
the  entire  surface  is  fiuted  like  a  column  and 
streaked  horizontally  by  varying  strata.  In 
colour  these  hills  are  light  ochre,  in  places  faintly 
tinged  with  purple,  as  though  some  pomegranate 
coloured  liquid  had  flowed  down  them,  leaving 
stains  through  which  the  yellow  sometimes  shows. 
The  higher  hills  on  the  left  are  rosier  or  even 
rusty,  barred  with  ugly  lines  of  deep  purplish 
red,  while  in  one  place  a  mass  of  cindery  black 
resembles  a  seared  wound. 

Turning  sharply  to  the  right,  we  enter  the 
Sardara  Pass.  At  first  it  is  so  narrow,  there  is 
only  just  enough  room  for  the  road  beside  a  little 
stream  of  clear  water  running  swiftly  over  pebbles. 
Then  it  widens  out  to  a  small  plain,  then  contracts 
once  more.  The  low  ridges  on  either  side  are 
fluted  and  glazed  like  all  the  others,  but  have 
curious  rolls  of  earth  running  down  to  the  stream, 


2i8      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

where  they  are  cut  off  abruptly.  These  hills 
seem  encrusted  with  metallic  tints  of  orange, 
green,  and  mauve,  which  make  the  whole  defile 
look  like  mineral  ore.  There  are  saline  deposits 
everywhere — plaques  of  leprous  white  on  the 
higher  slopes,  on  the  lower  spurs  a  feathery  pow- 
der. These  strange  formations  with  their  acrid 
colours — ^varying  from  yellow  to  crude  purples, 
interrupted  by  jagged  peaks  of  red — and  their 
fantastic  flutes,  now  vertical,  now  curved,  grasping 
the  valley  floor  as  though  with  fingers,  compose  an 
artificial  panorama,  suggesting  the  work  of  acids 
on  an  unknown  scale. 

The  best  authorities  seem  agreed  that  this  is  the 
"Caspiae  Portas,"  through  which  Darius  fled  from 
the  Greeks.  It  is  therefore  probable  that  these  lurid 
hills  saw  hyacinthine-headed  Alexander,  with  his 
army,  pass  in  pursuit.  The  great  Macedonian 
may  have  been  in  reality  ill-favoured;  but  I  can 
never  think  of  him  except  as  the  incarnation  of  that 
Hermes  carved  by  Praxiteles,  whose  deathless 
beauty  illumines  the  little  museum  built  in  the 
ruins  of  Olympia,  among  the  pines  that  on  golden 
summer-days  waft  into  the  presence  of  the  god 
an  aromatic  fragrance  like  the  scent  of  sunshine. 
Thus  must  the  young  conqueror  have  looked, 
when  he  traversed  this  defile.  On  the  comely  head 
and  close-ctu-led  ringlets,  a  great  helmet  certainly 
rested,  its  vermiHon  crest  standing  out  against  the 
clear  colours  of  the  pass  as  violently  as  blood  on 
white   skin.      His    gilded    armour — ^however   be- 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  219 

dimmed  by  dust — must  have  coruscated,  flinging 
back  the  sun-rays.  He  could  never  have  been  on 
foot,  so  his  charger  surely  arched  a  close-cropped 
mane,  and  tossed  a  small  fine  head — as  the  horses 
do  in  the  Panathenaic  festival  on  the  marbles  of 
the  Parthenon — swaying,  with  every  step,  the 
young  conqueror's  bare  knees  and  well-rounded 
legs  encased  in  greaves.  Perhaps  then  as  now,  a 
little  wind  rustled  the  sedge  on  the  river's  brink, 
catching  his  mantle  and  whirling  it  out  like  a 
wave  of  flame.  Eagerness  and  even  anxiety — 
later  exultation,  when,  on  reaching  the  plain,  he 
learned  the  captiu-e  of  Codomannus — must  have 
wrought  his  face;  although,  without  doubt,  a 
certain  poise  dignified  his  emotion.  The  soldiers, 
hastening  after  and  around  him,  could  have  been 
but  little  more  romantic  than  those  of  the  present ; 
nevertheless,  even  they  must  have  had  a  touch  of 
that  Grecian  goodliness  since  lost.  To-day  not  so 
much  as  a  pinch  of  dust  remains  of  that  Trampler 
of  Kings  who  wept  for  other  worlds  to  conquer; 
yet  here  in  this  remote  pass,  to  me  he  seems  more 

real  than  the  driver  on  the  box What 

curiously  complicated  creatures  we  are!  I  note 
these  ideas,  because  they  occur  to  me — at  least  to 
one  half  of  my  brain.  But  another  half  calls  them 
mere  rhetoric,  bom  of  a  desire  for  suitably  roman- 
tic sensation;  a  stern  and  mocking  half  which 
maintains  this  is  nothing  but  a  moderately 
picturesque  part  of  a  barren  coimtry  Alexander 
probably  never  saw;  and  that  even  if  he  did  see  it, 


220     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

driving  through  it  does  not  make  him  one  half  so 
real  as  he  is  in  the  works  of  historians  and  poets. 

If  Alexander  crossed  this  pass,  I  am  sure  he 
never  met  with  difficulties  greater  than  those  which 
impede  us  to-day.  In  several  places  the  road 
makes  a  perilous  plunge  to  the  river-bed,  then  rises 
precipitously  on  the  other  side;  the  only  way  for 
the  driver  to  negotiate  these  crossings,  is  to  send 
the  horses  down  on  the  run,  strike  the  stream  with 
a  splash,  then  gallop  up  the  other  side, — the  car- 
riage careening  wildly  every  minute,  in  imminent 
danger  of  upsetting.  Needless  to  say,  we  all 
prefer  walking  at  these  moments.  In  one  place 
where  the  bridge  is  down,  we  stick  fast  in  the 
gully  beside  it;  here  we  might  have  remained  all 
day,  had  the  post  not  chanced  to  overtake  us  and 
lend  extra  horses.  This  it  does,  not  out  of  kindness 
so  much  as  necessity,  since  we  bar  the  road.  One 
of  the  passengers — a  pleasant-looking  youth  in  a 
clean  coat  of  sky-blue — takes  oiu"  horses  by  the 
head,  and  leads  them  up  the  winding  road  at  a 
gallop,  holding  in  one  hand  a  blue  glass  lamp,  with 
which  he  will  entrust  no  one.  He  is  a  comical 
sight,  brandishing  his  lamp;  but  I  am  sincerely 
grateful  to  him,  inasmuch  as  he  is  the  first  Persian 
who  has  voluntarily  aided  us  when  in  trouble. 

About  two  o'clock  we  reach  Aiwan-i-Kayf;  a 
large  mud  village  divided  by  what  must  sometimes 
be  a  river,  but  is  now  only  a  very  wide  expanse  of 
stones  and  pebbles,  through  which  muddy  rills 
run  swiftly.    The  river-bed  is  dotted  with  women 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  221 

washing  linen,  many  of  them  dressed  in  citron- 
coloured  veils,  which  make  picturesque  spots 
against  the  huS  background.  Beyond  Aiwan-i- 
Kayf  the  wind  whirls  by,  driving  clouds  of  dust 
across  the  detestable  plain  over  which  rain  is 
threatening.  There  is  nothing  to  relieve  the 
monotony  which  in  Persia  seems  eternal,  until  we 
reach  Sharifabad  late  in  the  afternoon.  In  the 
dreary  light,  pines,  poplars,  and  flowering  fruit- 
trees, — which  crown  the  walls  like  a  giant  garland 
— seem  doubly  graceful.  From  here,  the  road  is 
constantly  cut  by  fairly  deep  streams  of  water, 
rushing  down  from  the  high  mountains  now  hard 
at  hand ;  the  fords  are  difficult  to  cross  and  require 
much  reconnoitring  before  we  venture.  Suddenly 
the  sinking  sun  appears  on  the  horizon,  between 
the  hills  and  the  black  edge  of  a  rain  cloud,  turning 
that  portion  of  the  sky  a  gloomy  green-gold,  while 
overhead  the  air  is  filled  with  luminous  trails  of 
vapour.  Then  the  sun  sets  and  darkness  falls  fast, 
until  complete  when  we  reach  a  caravanserai; 
here  I  decide  we  must  pass  the  night,  as,  if  I  try  to 
reach  Tihran,  we  might  easily  upset  while  crossing 
a  stream  in  the  darkness. 


March  i6*J' 

This  morning  it  is  very  cold  when  we  leave 

about  seven  o'clock,  with  supposedly  only  four 

farsakhs  between  us  and  Tihran;  but,  as  usual, 

they  grow  longer  the  farther  we  go.     The  sun 


.222      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

makes  feeble  efforts  to  pierce  snow-clouds,  illumi- 
nating the  landscape  with  faint  opal  light,  while 
an  icy  wind  blows  straight  from  the  snow -moun- 
tains. The  roadside  is  strewn  with  more  than  the 
customary  number  of  camel  skeletons  and  bloody 
carcasses  of  decaying  donkeys.  The  constant 
sight  of  unheeded  death  and  the  odour  of  neg- 
lected carrion,  add  a  special  horror  to  travel  in 
countries  such  as  this,  where  small  incidents  con- 
tinually emphasise  that  murderous  and  indifferent 
aspect  of  life,  which  in  civilisation  is  somewhat 
veiled. 

The  road  slowly  rises  among  barren  hills,  with 
the  golden  dome  of  Shah  Abdu'l  'Azim  looking 
like  a  large  yellow  tulip  far  away  in  the  distance 
down  a  valley;  then  it  turns  sharply  to  the  right, 
winding  up  and  around  the  shoulder  of  a  mountain, 
until  far  below — through  the  opening  between 
descending  hills — a  great  table-land,  tinged  with 
varying  greens,  lies  before  us.  On  every  side  hills 
and  mountains  form  an  amphitheatre,  where 
Tihran  is  just  visible  across  the  plain,  nestling  at 
the  foot  of  the  hills.  Opposite  us,  the  mountains 
begin  to  rise  in  lofty  snow-peaks,  until  to  the 
north  they  culminate  in  the  imperial  cone  of 
Damawand;  then,  curving  around,  sink  once  more 
to  the  level  of  the  barren  hill  on  which  we  have 
halted.  It  is  a  noble  site  for  a  city — probably 
unworthy  of  its  beautiful  surroundings.  The  road 
now  pitches  down  past  the  ParsTs'  round  white 
"tower  of  silence,"  with  distant  views  of  Ray; 


MASHHAD  TO  TIHRAN  223 

then  reaches  the  level,  where  the  blue  domes  and 
clustered  minarets  of  the  capital  grow  each  moment 
more  distinct.  Past  a  curious  series  of  high  mud 
walls,  used  to  keep  shallow  ditches  of  water  in 
shade  so  ice  will  form,  and  between  hovels  of  dried 
clay;  we  jolt  along  to  the  tiled  and  once  gaudy- 
gate  of  Tihran.  After  paying  an  entrance  tax 
on  the  carriage,  we  drive  through  shabby  streets 
where  a  little  horse-tram  rolls  along,  around  the 
large  and  uninteresting  Maidan-i-Tup,  and  up 
a  broad  avenue  to  the  little  H6tel  de  Paris,  kept 
by  the  former  Shah's  French  chauffeur — the  man 
who  was  wounded  by  the  bomb  thrown  at  Muham- 
mad 'All.  Its  modest  but  comfortable  accommoda- 
tions, and  its  good  coffee  and  milk  with  real  bread 
and  butter,  seem  to  me  the  height  of  luxury;  for 
the  disappointing  journey  of  six  hundred  miles 
across  the  wastes  of  Khurasan  and  Iraq,  has 
sorely  tried  my  endurance  by  its  lack  of  those 
interests  which  make  negligible  the  hardships  of 
travel. 


IV 
TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN 


IS  225 


IV 

TIHRAN  to  ISFAHAN 

March  17*^  to  25*.^ 
A  MORE  uninteresting  place  than  the  capital 
of  Persia  would  be  difficult  to  discover.  The 
modem  city  of  Tihran  comprises  a  common- 
place native  town,  a  large  square  without  distinc- 
tion, a  few  shabby  streets  of  European  shops, 
and  a  quarter  without  charm  almost  entirely 
occupied  by  foreign  legations.  Customs  and 
costiimes  are  of  no  interest,  since  they  are  neither 
truly  Persian  nor  wholly  Eiiropean.  The  city's 
vague  pretension  to  be  a  Europeanised  capital, 
makes  it  even  less  attractive  than  such  places  as 
Mashhad.  Residence  here  must  surely  be  a  trial 
to  all  Europeans — except  members  of  the  British 
and  Russian  Legations,  whose  endless  game  of 
political  chess  probably  makes  life  exciting.  To 
outsiders  this  contest  is  not  pleasant  to  watcli; 
for  a  visit  to  Tihr3,n  confirms  the  impression  that, 
however  degenerate  Persians  may  be,  they  have 
never — since  the  Revolution — been  given  a  decent 
opportunity    to    attempt    reforms,    without    the 

227 


228     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

interested  dictation  of  the  Powers.  Germany's 
incredible  and  all-reaching  influence  has  probably 
been  at  work  in  subterranean  channels;  Russia 
has  openly  hectored  and  seized  everything  of 
value;  while  Great  Britain  has  been  compelled 
by  political  necessities  of  irresistible  force  to 
violate  her  best  traditions,  and — ^in  the  words  of 
an  Englishman — "play  the  ignoble  r61e  of  lending 
respectability  to  the  proceedings." 

It  is  difficult  to  avoid  politics  here,  since  they 
are  in  the  very  air  one  breathes.  Politics,  repre- 
sented by  the  Legations,  also  contribute  the  one 
picturesque  sight  in  Tihran — the  carriages  of  the 
ministers  and  officers,  driving  about  preceded  by 
two  horsemen  and  followed  by  a  guard,  carrying 
lances  with  fluttering  pennons.  The  other  thing 
which  lends  a  little  grace  to  this  dreary  city,  is  the 
snow-mountains  visible  at  every  street  end.  They 
peer  serenely  down  with  their  pearly  masses,  or, 
in  the  case  of  Damawand,  a  sky-supporting  cone; 
and  almost  succeed  in  dignifying  the  tragi-comedy 
of  the  capital.  They  are  particularly  beautiful 
when  seen  from  the  old  ramparts  at  sun-down; 
the  whole  range  then  stands  out  sharply,  a  lightless 
expanse  of  cold  blue-green,  while  the  tip  of  Dama- 
wand suddenly  flushes  pink,  glowing  as  though 
illumined  from  within. 

The  American  Missionaries  direct  a  large  and 
prosperous  school  in  Tihran.  The  pupils  come 
from  all  ranks,  and  one  of  the  main  endeavours  of 
their  teachers,  is  to  supplant  the  oriental  attitude 


A  Street  in  Tihran 

The  snow  mountains  are  just  within  this  illustration  at  the 

end  of  the  street 


The  Sardara  Pass 
This  is  thought  to  be  the  "  Caspiae  Portae  "  through  which  Alexander  pursued  Darius 


Travelling  in  a  Fourgon  without  Springs.     Waiting  for  a  Horse  to  be  Shod  at  a 
Relay  on  the  Road  to  Qum 


The  River  and  the  Shrine  of  Fatima,  Qum 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  229 

of  servility  or  disdain  by  a  sense  of  healthy  self- 
respect  in  those  from  the  lower  classes,  and  of 
considerate  equality  on  the  part  of  the  better 
born.  Fundamental  ideas  of  honesty — which 
centuries  of  evil-training  have  obscured  in  Persian 
minds — are  inculcated,  and  a  sound  general 
education  given;  the  ground  being  in  this  way 
prepared  for  the  acceptance  of  religious  ideas. 
What  the  results  may  be  from  the  religious  stand- 
point, I  do  not  know;  but  it  is  certain  that  this 
training  will  uplift  every  young  Persian  so  for- 
tunate as  to  enjoy  its  benefits.  Even  those  who 
disbelieve  in  Foreign  Missions  on  principle,  must 
feel  admiration  for  the  educational  work  done  by 
this  Mission  School. 

The  most  admirable  thing  in  Tihran  is,  however, 
in  my  judgment,  the  British  Legation.  With  that 
sense  of  what  is  fitting  which  always  characterises 
it,  the  British  Government  owns  and  keeps  in 
perfect  order  a  large  and  beautiful  park  with  a 
suitable  dwelling  for  the  Minister,  and  smaller 
houses  for  the  Secretaries  and  Attaches,  and  even 
for  the  English  doctor  appointed  by  Government. 
There  is  no  unnecessary  show;  but  grounds, 
carriages,  servants,  guards,  and  everything  else, 
are  maintained  in  a  dignified  manner,  which 
worthily  upholds  the  prestige  of  a  great  empire. 
The  Legation  staff  is,  without  exception,  composed 
of  cultivated  and  finished  diplomats.  Judging  by 
the  way  I — without  any  letters  of  introduction — 
have  been  received  by  every  member  of  the  Lega- 


230     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

tion,  their  courtesy  and  hospitality  know  no  limit. 
At  least,  they  are  such  as  those  who  have  enjoyed 
them,  will  not  easily  forget.  To  British  courtesy 
I  am  also  indebted  for  the  possibility  of  continuing 
my  journey.  In  the  present  condition  of  Persia, 
travel  from  Tihran  to  the  Persian  Gulf  is  only 
practicable  with  the  protection  of  the  British 
Government.  Without  being  requested  by  the 
American  Minister,  all  the  arrangements  for  my 
safety  and  comfort  from  here  to  Bushir,  have 
been  made  by  the  British  Minister  of  his  own 
volition,  with  a  promptness,  civility,  and  thought- 
fulness,  that  could  not  have  been  surpassed  had  I 
been  a  British  subject. 

The  American  Minister  occupies  a  rented  house 
in  an  imfrequented  part  of  the  quarter.  The  First 
Secretary  is  an  experienced  diplomat,  who  does  all 
in  his  power  to  maintain  a  proper  standard; 
whereas  the  Minister  is  an  elderly  gentleman  of 
merit  and  estimable  qualities,  but  impolished, 
imtidy,  and  utterly  tmable  to  realise  the  dignity  of 
his  position  as  the  official  representative  of  a 
Great  Power.  While  all  the  other  Ministers  have 
official  carriages,  the  American  Minister  drives 
about  in  a  common  cab  from  the  square,  and 
complains  when  obliged  to  hire  for  the  day  a  decent 
carriage  in  which  to  make  an  official  call  on  the 
newly-arrived  Turkish  Ambassador.  This  may 
seem,  but  is  not,  a  matter  of  slight  importance. 
Whatever  may  be  true  elsewhere,  in  the  Orient  no 
one  is  respected  who  does  not  maintain  a  certain 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  231 

style  and  dignity.  Their  realisation  of  this  vital 
truth  is  one  of  the  qualities  which  account  for  the 
success  of  the  British  in  the  East.  The  shabby 
standard  maintained  by  the  American  Minister 
here,  is  not  a  question  which  concerns  him  as  an 
individual  alone,  inasmuch  as  it  causes  the  coimtry 
he  represents  to  be  looked  down  upon  by  all 
Persians. 

The  lamentable  policy  of  our  Government — 
which  gives  its  foreign  representatives  inadequate 
salaries,  and  makes  no  provision  for  housing  them 
in  fixed  residences  befitting  their  dignity — renders 
it  impossible  for  any  man  not  possessed  of  a 
large  private  income  to  accept  a  diplomatic 
appointment.  This  is  of  course  a  cynical  negation 
of  the  democratic  ideal  we  pretend  to  uphold; 
it  also  causes  American  Embassies  and  Legations 
to  lack  the  established  and  dignified  position 
occupied  by  representatives  of  even  the  least 
important  Powers.  The  world  over,  American 
Ambassadors  are  little  more  than  travellers  having 
official  relations  with  the  courts  to  which  they 
may  chance  to  be  accredited.  Under  these  cir- 
cumstances, it  is  not  to  be  expected  that  the 
American  Legation  here  can  be  compared  to  the 
British,  or  the  French,  or  even  the  Turkish ;  but  it 
is  reasonable  to  demand  that  its  chief  shall  main- 
tain conditions  of  moderate  efficiency.  The 
American  Minister's  intentions  are  amiable,  but 
there  is  good  reason  to  believe  that  in  important 
affairs,  he  lacks  initiative  as  much  as  he  does  in 


232      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  small  matters  under  my  personal  observation. 
At  twelve  o'clock  I  have  found  the  American 
Legation  deserted, — with  the  chancellery  doors 
open  for  anyone  to  walk  through  and  take  what  he 
pleases,  but  not  a  servant  to  be  roused  by  ringing 
and  knocking,  however  prolonged. 

To-day  at  the  Shah's  saldm,  as  the  New  Year's 
reception  is  called,  my  shame  for  the  way  my 
country  is  represented  here,  reached  its  keenest. 
The  mistaken  tradition  which  obliges  our  envoys 
to  appear  at  foreign  courts  in  the  costume  of 
waiters,  is  regrettable  at  all  times.  Good  breeding 
demands  that  a  man  conform  to  the  customs  of 
those  around  him,  as  far  as  is  compatible  with  his 
own  self-respect.  To  decree  that  our  Ministers 
shall  refuse  compliance  with  the  requirements  of 
court  etiquette,  is  an  act  of  provincial  bad  manners. 
To  imagine  that  the  dress  of  our  diplomats  has  a 
Spartan  simplicity,  which  befits  democracy  and 
commands  respect,  is  a  mistake  no  one  who  has 
ever  seen  them  at  a  European  capital,  will  ever 
make.  The  truth  is :  their  appearance  only  excites 
ridicule,  tempered  by  the  amount  of  respect  in 
which  they  may  happen  to  be  held  as  individuals. 
In  the  days  when  we  sent  such  men  as  Franklin 
abroad,  the  simplicity  of  their  dress  amid  the 
embroidered  extravagance  of  royal  courts,  did 
attract  attention  and  often  admiration;  but  it 
should  be  remembered  that  this  dress  was  appro- 
priate, in  so  much  as  it  was — however  simple — a 
form  of  court  costume.    Franklin  did  not  appear 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  233 

at  Versailles  in  the  same  clothes  that  were  worn 
by  the  men  who  served  the  table  of  Louis  XVI. 
Our  present  custom  would  certainly  be  condemned 
by  the  very  founders  of  our  country,  whose  tradi- 
tions it  is  supposed  to  continue.  No  one  wishes  to 
see  American  envoys  in  the  elaborate  costume 
worn  by  the  representatives  of  a  monarchy;  but 
there  can  be  no  valid  objection  to  their  wearing 
a  simple  uniform — unless  it  also  be  held  "un- 
democratic" in  our  soldiers  to  wear  uniform. 
Could  every  American  citizen  see  the  sorry  figure 
which  our  representatives  cut  in  the  midst  of  the 
tmiformed  envoys  of  the  Powers,  great  and  small — 
particularly  at  the  reception  of  an  Eastern  sover- 
eign, however  enfeebled, — our  nation  might  be  less 
indifferent  to  conditions  obtaining  in  the  American 
Diplomatic  Service. 

The  saldm  which  gives  rise  to  these  reflections,  is 
a  very  disappointing  affair;  for  this  year,  all  the 
spectators — except  members  of  the  Diplomatic 
Corps — are  placed  in  a  room  next  to  the  throne- 
room,  where  they  can  see  nothing  of  interest.  The 
windows  overlook  a  large  courtyard  with  groups 
of  cypress -trees,  where  the  Diplomatic  Corps 
faces  us  in  handsome  uniforms  (with  the  exception 
of  the  two  American  representatives),  ranged  in 
rows  in  front  of  the  colonnade  where  the  Shah  is 
to  appear.  A  number  of  soldiers  march  by,  a 
shrill  trumpet  announces  the  Shah's  presence,  and 
a  few  notabilities  in  wonderful  robes  of  old  Kash- 
mir  shawls,    make   obeisance;   then   all   is   over, 


234     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

without  our  having  so  much  as  a  gHmpse  of  the 
unfortunate  youth  who  nominally  rules  over 
Persia. 

The  Royal  Palace  is  a  most  unattractive  place. 
The  courts  are  filled  with  painted  figures  of  cast- 
iron  in  a  kind  of  operatic  Romeo's  costume,  and 
with  boys  of  gilt  iron  offering  vermilion  cups  to 
gilt  eagles.  The  tanks  are  stagnant  and  shabby, 
the  gardens  neglected.  The  rooms  are  horrible 
even  for  one  of  those  monuments  of  bad  taste 
called  Royal  Palaces;  the  walls  are  covered  with 
mirrors,  and  a  decoration  made  of  small  pieces  of 
mirror  set  in  elaborate  patterns,  the  effect  remind- 
ing one  of  a  wedding-cake.  The  furniture  is 
without  exception  European,  of  poor  quality  and 
worse  taste;  there  is  not  a  single  one  of  those 
exquisite  works  of  Persian  art  which  in  the  collec- 
tions of  Europe  arouse  enthusiasm — not  so  much 
as  a  fine  carpet.  Neither  the  famous  Peacock 
Throne — so  long  erroneously  thought  to  be  the 
one  built  for  the  Great  Moghal  and  looted  by 
Nadir  Shah — nor  any  of  the  jewels,  are  now 
exhibited.  Local  gossip  believes  them  to  have 
been  broken  up  and  sold  in  Europe  by  the  present 
government 

Since  arriving  at  Tihran,  there  has  been  some 
doubt  whether  I  shall  be  able  to  travel  from 
Shiraz  to  Bushir  with  safety.  It  appears  that  the 
khans  (great  chiefs)  are  disaffected  on  account  of 
the  establishment  of  a  gendarmerie,  which  inter- 
feres with  their  levying  illegal  road-tolls  and  other 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  235 

forms  of  extortion.  Brigandage  is  also  rife,  since 
the  robbers,  who  feared  the  power  of  the  late 
Shah,  have  no  dread  of  the  present  Constitutional 
Government,  its  weakness  being  patent.  Alto- 
gether Persia  is  in  a  condition  of  anarchy  and 
insecurity  unknown  twenty  years  ago.  Last 
November  an  unsuccessful  attempt  was  made  to 
capture  a  noted  brigand,  but  order  was  supposedly 
restored  by  the  bringing  up  of  guns  and  extra 
troops  from  Bushir.  In  February  the  Swedish 
officer  commanding  the  Persian  gendarmes  at 
Kazarun  (between  Shiraz  and  Bushir)  resolved  to 
make  prisoner  a  khan  who  openly  sided  with  the 
forces  of  disorder.  While  placing  a  charge  of 
gunpowder  at  the  house-door  of  the  besieged 
khan,  the  Swedish  officer  was  killed  and  his  body 
thrown  down  a  well.  The  gendarmes  were  then 
attacked  and  driven  back  to  their  barracks,  where 
they  and  the  widow  of  the  Swedish  officer  were 
besieged  for  some  days.  A  young  French  officer 
— on  his  way  to  Bushir  on  a  mission — ^hearing  the 
sound  of  fighting,  entered  the  barracks  imder 
cross-fire,  and  probably  saved  the  Swedish  lady's 
life  by  encouraging  the  men  to  hold  out  imtil 
relief  came.  Colonel  B. — the  young  American 
who  remained  after  Mr.  Shuster's  departure  to 
try  and  form  a  Persian  army  at  Shiraz — led  a 
relief  force  with  Maxim  guns  from  Shiraz,  but  the 
besieged  had  been  relieved  before  he  reached 
Kazarun.  There  is,  however,  good  reason  to  believe 
that  his  arrival  saved  the  town  from  complete 


236     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

destruction  at  the  hands  of  the  enraged  gendarmes. 

It  is  therefore  easy  to  realise  that  this 

road  is  not  a  very  peaceful  place  at  present;  but, 
after  communicating  with  the  Consul  at  Shiraz, 
the  British  Minister  has  finally  consented  to  my 
starting. 

Wearied  of  his  inefficiency,  I  have  discharged 
my  "artist,"  Aghajan;  and — after  a  week's  search 
for  what  appears  to  be  a  rare  creatiu-e  in  Tihran 
— have  engaged  a  guide  and  interpreter  called 
Husayn,  a  name  commemorating  the  martyr  of 
Karbala.  He  is  a  diminutive  person,  neatly 
dressed,  with  the  appearance  of  a  shopkeeper 
rather  than  a  guide;  he  speaks  fairly  fluent  French, 
and  some  German  and  Turkish ;  he  was  bom  in  this 
city  of  Turkish  parents,  and  has  curiously  enough 
spent  two  years  in  Wiesbaden.  I  am  hoping  he 
may  prove  an  improvement  on  his  predecessor. 

As  no  vehicles  for  passengers  and  luggage  like 
those  in  which  I  travelled  from  Mashhad,  are  to 
be  hired  for  the  journey  to  Isfahan,  my  first  inten- 
tion was  to  take  a  carriage  and  send  my  luggage 
by  post  in  care  of  a  gendarme  who  is  to  make  the 
trip  this  week.  But  I  discovered  that  nothing  but 
wrecks  of  carriages  could  be  hired,  since — this 
being  a  time  of  pilgrimage — all  the  decent  ones  are 
on  the  road  between  here  and  Qum,  where  the 
shrine  of  the  Imam  Rida's  sister  Fatima  is  situated. 
At  a  friend's  suggestion,  I  have  therefore  decided 
to  take  afourgon,  like  the  one  I  had  for  two  days 
on  the  Khurasan  road,   put  my  luggage  in  the 


Doorway  of  the  Mosque,  Qum 
Photograph  by  E.  Bristow,  Esq. 


— f-r*£:'w 


The  Shrine  of  Fatima,  Qum 

The  square  is  paved  with  the  graves  of  pilgrims 

Photograph  by  E   Bristow,  Esq. 


The  Joys  of  Travel  in  Persia:     What  Happens  when  the  Driver's 
Last  Pipe   of  Opium   was   Strong 


In  the  Desert  near  Kashan 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  237 

bottom,  and  place  mattresses  on  top  of  it  for 
Said  and  myself.  The  prospect  of  travelling  six 
days  in  a  waggon  with  no  springs,  I  find  alarming; 
but  my  acquaintance  insists  that,  with  mattresses, 
it  will  be  comfortable.  It  has  been  ordered  for 
five  o'clock  to-morrow  morning,  as  the  post  starts 
for  Isfahan  the  same  day,  and  I  wish  to  keep 
ahead  of  it  in  order  to  avoid  difficulty  in  obtaining 
horses.  The  nd'ib  (head  of  the  post  service)  has 
been  menaced  with  catastrophe  if  it  is  late,  and 
offered  large  rewards  in  case  it  is  on  time;  I  am 
therefore  hoping  to  make  a  peaceful  departure 
from  Tihran. 


March  26*!» 
My  hopes  were  vain;  at  five  o'clock,  to  my 
surprise,  the  Jourgon  was  at  the  hotel  door;  but 
there  were  no  signs  of  Husayn,  whom  I  had 
ordered  to  sleep  at  the  hotel  and  fetch  the  waggon 
at  half -past  four.  Said  and  I  loaded  the  cart,  and 
arranged  the  mattresses  on  top  of  the  luggage  as 
deftly  as  possible;  finally  at  six  o'clock  Husayn 
appeared  with  eyes  half  out  of  his  head,  looking 
as  though  a  last  night  in  the  capital  had  been  too 
much  for  him.  I  fear  that  I  have  jumped  from 
the  frying-pan  into  the  middle  of  the  fire. 

When  we  start,  it  is  broad  daylight  although 
not  yet  sun-up.  The  road  as  far  as  Shah  Abdul 
*Azlm  is  abominable.  Over  the  trees  the  shrine 
is  just  visible:  a  dome  with  crumbling  tiles  of 


238     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

emerald  and  sapphire,  a  lofty  minaret  beside 
another  cupola  glistening  with  new  gilt,  and  a 
third  one  patterned  with  multi-coloured  tiles. 
The  pinnacles  are  garnished  with  storks'-nests, 
where  the  ludicrous  birds  clap  their  bills  loudly 
while  feeding  the  young.  We  soon  meet  a  caravan 
of  pilgrims  returning  from  Karbala,  a  spot  hallowed 
by  the  death  and  burial  of  'Ali's  son  Husayn, 
whom  all  Shi'ites  adore  almost  as  a  Redeemer. 
The  pilgrims  are  travelling  in  kajdwa,  small 
wooden  platforms  with  a  railing  on  three  sides  and 
a  hood.  These  pecuHar  boxes — open  on  one  side — 
are  slimg  in  pairs  on  a  mule's  back,  where  men  and 
women  squat  in  them  cross-legged,  swaying  about 
like  animals  in  cages. 

The  road — rising  slowly  through  barren  country 
— has  a  more  civilised  appearance  than  the  one 
from  Mashhad.  There  are  gendarmerie  posts, 
and  even  toll-gates  at  either  end  of  a  stretch 
of  real  macadam.  My  fourgon  jolts  abominably 
and  is  most  uncomfortable,  notwithstanding  the 
mattress  on  which  I  am  lying  with  my  back 
propped  up  by  cushions.  The  post-house  where  I 
halt  to  eat  luncheon,  stands  opposite  a  walled 
garden,  in  which  the  boughs  are  beginning  to  wrap 
themselves  in  a  haze  of  vivid  emerald.  Winter  is 
at  an  end,  for  birds  are  singing  and  it  is  really  hot. 
In  front  of  me,  a  man  is  seated  on  the  ground, 
hammering  to  bits  a  white  cone — the  form  in  which 
Persian  sugar  is  sold. 

The  road  now  crosses  a  veritable  desert,  inter- 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  239 

rupted  by  fluted  ridges  shaped  like  a  huge  peri- 
winkle shell;  sometimes  they  follow  each  other  in 
serried  rows,  at  others  occur  isolated  and  much 
larger.  In  tone,  they  are  ashes  of  rose  fading  to 
pale  dove-colour,  the  level  spaces  being  a  metallic 
shade  of  greyish  green.  Far  behind  us,  the  snow 
mountains — with  Damawand's  soaring  cone — 
are  visible  through  the  haze,  their  bases  so  faint 
the  white  peaks  seem  to  float  on  air.  At  the  next 
relay  a  horse  has  to  be  shod  before  we  can  start; 
he  has  been  in  the  stable  for  hours,  but  no  one 
thought  of  shoeing  him  until  we  arrived.  The 
Persian  shoe  is  peculiar — a  very  thin  plate  of  metal 
covering  the  entire  hoof,  except  where  a  hole  is 
cut  near  the  back.  This  time  the  horses  have  little 
bells,  whose  jingle  is  audible  above  the  crashing 
of  the  fourgon  and  the  clank  of  its  iron  chains. 
The  dust,  caught  up  by  wind,  whirls  across  the 
desert  like  a  troop  of  ghosts.  A  drearier  view 
would  be  hard  to  find.  When  we  stop  to  change 
horses,  a  broken  brougham — held  together  by 
yards  of  rope — is  standing  in  front  of  the  caravan- 
serai, with  a  very  smart  lady-goat  sitting  on  the 
seat  looking  out  of  the  window.  It  is  so  like  a 
scene  in  Through  the  Looking  Glass,  I  am  surprised 
the  goat  does  not  speak  to  me. 

When  we  leave,  a  most  amusing  little  black  dog 
follows,  nmning  about  the  waggon  in  every  direc- 
tion and  refusing  to  go  home.  The  road  rises 
abruptly  across  a  waste  of  boulders,  close  to  a 
high  and  rubbly  hill,  almost  violet  powdered  with 


240     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

brown.  Below  us,  the  plain  we  have  just  crossed 
stretches  away  mile  after  mile,  with  the  distance 
drawing  its  ridges  together  into  wrinkled  lines — 
like  waves  solidified — varying  from  deep  brown 
to  cream  yellow.  On  reaching  the  crest,  there  is  a 
view  out  through  a  gap  in  the  hill  to  a  streaked 
and  isolated  mountain,  really  rufous,  but  now 
darkened  to  brown  by  a  cloud-shadow  covering 
all  but  the  lowest  spurs.  Around  it  a  plain  ex- 
tends as  far  as  the  eye  can  carry,  like  a  torpid  sea 
of  some  liquid  heavier  than  water — one  of  those 
magical  seas  in  The  Arabian  Nights.  In  one  place 
deposits  of  salt  make  faint  lines  of  azured  silver, 
not  to  be  distinguished  from  the  tide  advancing 
across  desolate  shores.  This  acrid  scenery  has 
one  beauty,  constantly  changing  colour  and 
shadow.  As  we  descend,  the  nearer  hills  are  all 
but  black;  then — when  the  sun  emerges  from 
clouds — they  glow  with  ruddy  brown,  and  the 
mountain  of  barren  earth  flushes  bumt-siena. 
Then  everything  fades  and  grows  dim  again,  until 
nothing  but  an  expanse  of  false  sea  far  across  the 

misty  plain  still  shines  like  an  opal This 

beauty,  nevertheless,  is  of  death  and  desolation, 
suggesting  eternal  sterility  or  cataclysmic  ravin. 
The  sight  of  it  neither  cheers  nor  rests  the  mind; 
on  the  contrary,  it  grows  tense  with  an  almost 
physical  sense  of  tautness,  until — fatigued  by 
monotony — it  turns  in  the  void,  brooding  on 
unpleasant  thoughts. 

Gradually  as  the  light  dies,  everything  in  sight 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  241 

grows  ashen.  By  the  roadside  a  caravan  of  camels 
kneels  or  strides  slowly  to  drink.  Up  and  down, 
we  rattle  through  the  dreariness  of  barren  hills, 
with  a  few  wild  clouds  trailing  across  the  darkened 
sky.  All  things  suggest  gloom.  When  night  has 
blotted  out  everything  but  the  horses'  heads,  we 
reach  one  of  the  telegraph-stations,  where  the 
Telegraph  Department  maintains  a  decent  room 
for  travellers.  The  driver  insists  that  he  will  not 
stay  here,  as  it  is  between  relays;  but  nothing  can 
force  me  to  go  on  to  k  caravanserai.  The  little 
black  dog  has  followed  us  all  afternoon,  and  is  now 
playing  about,  waiting  to  be  caressed.  Having 
been  fed  with  bits  of  bread,  he  decides  to  lie  on 
my  feet.  It  is  a  warm  spring  night  with  doors 
and  windows  wide  open,  a  welcome  change  from 
winter  and  the  acrid  smoke  with  which  caravan- 
serai chimneys  fill  the  rooms. 


March  27*'* 
In  the  pale  light  before  simrise,  I  find  a  rufous 
plain  lying  below  me,  with  snow-peaks  visible  in 
the  far  distance,  lustreless  and — like  the  sky — 
awaiting  sim-up  to  spring  into  life.  The  air  is 
filled  with  a  strident  noise  of  two  baby  camels, 
clamouring  for  their  mother  to  feed  them.  We 
start  without  disputes,  but  at  the  first  relay  find 
there  are  no  horses,  except  a  tired  team  that  has 
just  arrived.  As  my  animals  have  only  been 
driven  a  couple  of  miles,  I  insist  on  keeping  them 
16 


242     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

for  the  next  stage;  the  na'lb  makes  no  objection, 
but  the  driver — who  was  so  troublesome  last 
night — is  unwilling  to  go  further,  and  becomes 
so  obstreperous,  he  has  to  be  well  shaken  before 
starting. 

From  here  the  road  descends  to  the  plain,  crosses 
it,  and  ascends  again,  in  an  absolutely  straight 
line — mile  after  mile — bordered  by  iron-telegraph 
poles  with  cross-pieces  at  the  top,  rising  out  of 
little  mounds  like  enormous  sepulchral  monu- 
ments. They  lend  a  sinister  aspect  to  the  depres- 
sing waste,  across  which  our  progress  seems  eternal. 
To  the  left,  lies  what  I  yesterday  took  for  salt 
deposits,  but  is  really  a  vast  shallow  lake,  looking 
like  a  steel  surface  shining  in  the  sunlight  veiled 
by  haze  that  is  unpleasantly  hot.  The  road  ap- 
pears endless  and  the  plain  without  limit;  when 
at  last  we  begin  to  climb  the  opposite  incline,  it  is 
still  worse.  The  heat  burns  the  skin,  and  the 
ceaseless  clanking  of  the  waggon  chains,  as  well 
as  the  continual  jolting,  seem  unendurable.  After 
two  hours,  during  which  we  have  made  no  apparent 
advance  along  the  unswerving  road,  a  carriage 
comes  into  sight,  crawling  toward  us  until  it  stops 
to  exchange  horses.  It  is  a  very  dilapidated 
brougham  with  a  gendarme  on  the  box  beside  the 
post-driver;  inside  are  an  elderly  woman  with 
features  hardened  by  experience,  a  child,  and  an 
adolescent  in  breeches  and  English  riding-boots. 
They  are  talking  French,  so  we  converse — while 
the  horses  are  being  changed — about  the  detest- 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  243 

able  nature  of  Persian  drivers.  They  are  travel- 
ling from  Sultanabad  to  Tihran.  In  such  places 
curiosity  is  lively  concerning  those  one  meets  on 
the  road,  and  it  is  impossible  not  to  wonder  who 
these  peculiar  French-speaking,  but  obviously  not 
French,  people  are,  where  they  came  from  orgi- 
nally,  what  ill  fortune  sent  them  to  Persia,  and 
what  their  relations  are  to  each  other. 

Travelling  alike  across  this  endless  desolation, 
we  start  again  in  our  opposite  directions,  after  a 
few  moments  in  which  we  eyed  one  another  en- 
quiringly, wondering  what  existence  was  crossing 
what.  In  the  burning  light  the  road  rises  before 
us,  a  line  of  white  along  which  we  seem  doomed 
always  to  crawl.  The  four gon  rattles  and  creaks; 
the  chains  jangle;  the  wheels  strike  an  inequality 
every  few  minutes,  leave  the  ground,  and  come 
down  again  with  a  terrific  jolt.  Said  and  I  are 
thrown  about  like  peas  in  a  saucepan.  The  shak- 
ing and  incessant  noise  make  this  Persian  vehicle 
a  veritable  instrument  of  torture.  I  would  pay 
anything  to  secure  even  so  wretched  an  omnibus 
as  the  one  in  which  I  arrived  at  Tihran.  Finally, 
after  many  hopes  have  been  deceived,  we  reach 
the  summit  of  a  barren  ridge,  where  an  inscribed 
tablet  beside  the  road  indicates  the  spot  whence 
pilgrims  can  first  see  the  holy  shrine  at  Qum.  I 
can  discern  nothing,  perhaps  because  lacking  the 
eyes  of  faith. 

From  here  we  descend  to  a  place  called  Manza- 
riyyah,  where  I  arrive  exhausted  and  with  nerves 


244     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

exacerbated.  A  large  and  elaborate  caravanserai 
is  visible  from  where  I  am  resting  and  trying  to 
lunch.  Looking  at  its  flat  tiled  surfaces,  I  am 
struck  with  the  differences  between  the  architec- 
tures of  the  North  and  the  South.  In  northern 
countries,  where  there  is  but  little  sun  and  that 
comparatively  weak,  flat  surfaces  are  monotonous 
and  bright  colours  offensively  harsh.  Fine  mate- 
nals — such  as  stone — being  easy  to  procure,  they 
are  employed  in  ways  which  show  their  beauty. 
Plans  are  complicated,  and  the  architectural 
forms  both  elaborate  and  diversified  by  the  play 
of  light  and  shade;  surfaces  are  richly  carved  and 
adorned  with  salient  mouldings  that  cast  deep 
shadows.  In  the  South,  materials  are  usually 
small  and  common;  they  are  therefore  used  to 
build  a  stout  core,  which  is  then  veneered  with 
more  precious  substances.  Carvings  and  mould- 
ings are  almost  impossible  to  make  under  these 
conditions.  The  disposition  of  a  building  is,  for 
this  reason,  simplified  to  the  utmost :  nothing  but 
large  masses,  in  arrangements  of  almost  childish 
simplicity,  and  bare  surfaces  only  pierced  by 
absolutely  indispensable  apertures.  Then  over  all 
is  laid  a  coating  of  precious  marble  or  jewel- 
like tiles,  whose  brilliant  colours  flash  in  the 
splendour  of  a  southern  sun.  While  perfect,  these 
simple  and  bejewelled  buildings  are  very  beautiful ; 
when  dilapidated,  their  lack  of  solid  and  noble 
masses,  and  their  dependence  for  effect  on  perfect 
surfaces,  give  them  a  shabby  and  repellent  aspect, 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  245 

which  the  most  neglected  ruin  never  has  in  the 
North. 

From  Manzariyyah  the  road  passes  down  and 
across  an  undulatory  but  absolutely  barren  plain. 
(I  have  begun  to  detest  even  the  sound  of  these 
words.)  The  sky  is  veiled  in  sullen  grey.  One 
ridge  in  the  far  distance  is  purple,  like  a  moor  in 
heather-blossom  season;  but  for  the  most  part, 
everything  in  sight  is  the  colour  of  ashes  and 
burnt  earth.  Anything  so  waste  and  unlovely  as 
these  Persian  landscapes,  I  have  never  seen ;  there 
is  not  a  tree  or  a  shrub  except  around  the  rare  vil- 
lages. There  is  neither  the  diversity  in  form  and 
colour  of  the  Algerian  high  plateaus,  or  even  of 
the  Sahara  with  its  green  oases.  To  intensify 
the  ghastliness,  skeletons  and  carcasses  in  every 
stage  of  decay  line  the  road;  whitened  camel 
bones  and  skulls  are  everywhere,  and  are  even  used 
to  solidify  mud  walls  or  dam  an  irrigation  canal. 
Loathsome  carrion — once  a  mule  or  horse  or  dog — 
meets  the  traveller  with  frequence.  At  every 
turn  disease,  decay,  and  death,  stalk  unmasked  in 
Persia.  Journeying  with  enforced  slowness,  the 
mind  wearies  and  aches  almost  physically,  until 
it  feels  as  blighted  as  the  land  itself. 

After  disappointments  without  end  on  reaching 
ridges,  each  of  which  I  thought  must  surely  be  the 
last;  the  minarets  and  golden  dome  of  Fatima's 
shrine  come  into  view,  and  after  driving  through 
dreary  streets,  the  post-house  at  Qum  is  finally 
reached.     My  first  thought  is  to  find  a  carriage 


246     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

for  the  rest  of  the  journey,  as  I  would  spend  my 
last  farthing,  or  stay  here  for  months,  rather  than 
travel  another  hour  in  that  diabolical  jourgon ; 
I  am  so  lucky  as  to  secure  a  fairly  decent  diligence. 

The   post-house   is    quite    an    elaborate 

two-storey  building  with  fairly  clean  rooms — the 
first  public  lodging-place  at  all  attractive  that 
I  have  met  with  in  Persia.  My  room  looks  down 
on  a  garden  where  green  grass  is  growing  high,  and 
where  there  are  trees  plentifully  powdered  with 
minute  blossoms  of  deep  purple,  as  well  as  others 
burgeoning  with  the  vivid  emerald  of  their  first 
leaves.  Around  the  comer  is  an  orchard  with 
walls  of  dried  clay,  filled  with  small  trees  of  feathery 
green,  above  which  rise  the  bare  but  empurpled 
boughs  of  taller  ones,  or  here  and  there  the  milky 
flowers  of  a  fruit-tree.  This  view  rests  me  at 
once,  since  after  such  a  journey  nothing  is  so 
refreshing  as  the  sight  of  green  nature  in  all  its 
beauty. 

At  no  great  distance  beyond  the  walls,  the  shrine 
of  Fatima  looms — with  even  details  visible.  First 
of  all,  I  see  the  upper  portion  of  a  great  entrance 
archway  tiled  with  blue;  on  top  of  it,  but  off  the 
axis,  is  a  small  pagoda  with  a  roof  of  pale  green. 
To  the  left  of  this  are  two  very  tall  but  slender 
minarets  covered  with  tiles  of  pale  turquoise 
striped  with  yellow  and  white.  Further  back  is 
another  wall,  pierced  by  an  arch  and  surmounted 
by  two  minarets  like  the  others  only  smaller. 
They  terminate  in  open,  almost  Chinese  cages, 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  247 

and  are  connected  by  wires  from  which  lanterns 
depend.  Still  further  off  and  dominating  all, 
is  the  great  gold  dome  that  shines  and  seems  to 
leap  out  of  the  picture  on  even  so  dull  a  day  as 
this. 

Strolling  out,  a  few  hundred  yards  bring  me  to 
the  river,  where  camels  are  gathered  on  the  dry 
and  pebbly  bed,  with  the  mosque  towering  over 
the  houses  on  the  opposite  bank.  The  river-bed  is 
spanned  by  a  curious  bridge  rising  from  either  end 
toward  the  centre,  where  there  are  two  pinnacles 
of  blue  tile.  The  further  end  abuts  on  a  gateway 
with  the  customary  tiles,  pinnacles,  and  mosaic 
of  a  combatant;  and  is  flanked  by  small  buildings 
of  brick  and  plaster,  strangely  like  rococo  work 
in  Europe.  A  line  of  low  houses,  built  of  mud 
brick  with  flat  roofs,  overhangs  the  river-bed  of 
stones  and  grey  sand,  where  water  runs  in  divers 
channels  occupying  only  a  small  part  of  the  wide 
expanse.  Camels  are  drinking,  men  wading, 
and  small  boys  playing  where  the  muddy  rills 
rush  through  the  dry  bed.  The  whole  scene  is — 
like  all  Qum — dominated  by  the  aspiring  minarets 
and  gilded  cupola  of  Fatima's  shrine.  Looking 
down  stream,  there  is  a  little  settlement  where 
a  turquoise  cone  is  prominent  with  green  grain 
growing  beside  it;  here  the  numerous  imam  zddas 
repose;  further  away  a  line  of  dull  blue  hills, 
and  behind  that  the  majestic  cone  of  Damawand 
soaring  into  the  grey.  As  the  day  is  overcast,  it 
is  half  lost  in  the  sky ;  yet  light  falls  on  it  somehow. 


248     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

making  it  brighter  than  the  all  but  invisible  snow 
ranges,  over  which  it  hangs  like  a  vision. 

From  the  bridge  a  vaulted  passage  leads  to  the 
Maidan — a  very  long  and  comparatively  narrow 
"square" — at  the  further  end  of  which  the  dome, 
minarets,  and  pagodas  of  the  sacred  shrine,  rise 
picturesquely  above  the  cream-coloured  enclosure 
walls.  It  is  as  strange  a  public  square  as  ever 
existed ;  for  it  is  nothing  more  or  less  than  a  great 
cemetery,  where  those  are  buried  who  seek  vica- 
rious sanctity  in  the  proximity  of  their  ashes  to 
the  tomb  of  Fatima.  There  is  scarcely  an  inch 
between  the  graves,  which  are  marked  by  slabs 
built  with  brick,  sometimes  with  an  inscribed 
marble  tablet;  for  the  most  part,  however,  they 
are  nameless,  as  Orientals  display  an  indifference 
to  perpetuating  the  identity  of  their  remains 
that  is  wise,  but  difficult  for  Europeans  to  under- 
stand. In  one  or  two  cases,  the  burial-place  of 
some  notable  person  is  marked  by  a  convention- 
alised lion  roughly  blocked  out  in  stone,  standing 
defiantly  on  guard  over  the  grave.  The  surfaces 
of  the  tombs  are  uneven,  and  make  walking  very 
difficult ;  but  men  and  women  stroll  about,  display 
wares  for  sale,  or  even  lie  asleep  on  a  funeral  slab 
beside  their  burdens,  utterly  oblivious  of  the 
chamel  nature  of  the  place. 

The  shrine  stretches  entirely  across  one  end  of 
the  square,  and  far  to  the  right.  The  original 
mosque,  where  the  dust  of  Fatima  rests,  lies  to  one 
side;  it  is  flanked  by  a  large  mosque  with  two 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  249 

soaring  minarets,  recently  built  by  a  great  man 
who  lived  here  after  his  disgrace  by  IMuzafTaru'd- 
Din  Shah.  The  golden  dome  is  resplendent  among 
the  four  lofty  minarets,  much  as  a  great  yellow- 
tulip  might  be  among  loftier  lilies.  The  walls  at  the 
end  of  the  square,  enclose  the  court  of  the  m^odem 
mosque,  terminating  in  great  gateways,  small  domes, 
and  minarets.  Viewed  across  this  vast  mortuary 
expanse,  the  shrine,  with  all  its  slender  minarets 
seeking  the  sky  like  great  arrows,  is  extremely 
picturesque.  Access  to  it  is  of  course  rigorously 
forbidden  unbelievers;  but  I  am  allowed  to  walk 
about  the  court  of  the  madrasa — or  university — 
situated  in  front  of  the  shrine  proper,  to  which  it 
gives  direct  entrance.  The  enclosure  is  laid  out 
in  broad  brick  walks,  with  a  square  tank  in  the 
centre;  the  spaces  between  these  paths  being 
divided  by  dykes  of  earth  into  small  rectangles, 
where  there  is  either  tall  grass  or  the  stubble  of 
that  recently  reaped.  There  are  a  few  bare  trees 
and  three  noble  cypresses.  The  arcades  running 
along  the  sides,  open  into  little  cells  for  students, 
now  quite  abandoned — whether  temporarily  or 
for  all  time,  who  knows?  In  the  centre  of  all  four 
sides  of  the  court,  is  the  usual  great  portal-arch, 
three  of  them  in  advanced  decay,  but  still  conserv- 
ing a  few  tiled  panels,  where  birds  and  fruit  are 
depicted  on  a  background  of  lovely  yellow;  the 
fourth  is  larger  and  in  better  repair;  a  flight  of 
steps  leads  up  to  its  door,  across  which  a  chain 
is  festooned  to  prohibit  unbelievers,  and  mark  the 


250     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

spot  where  bast  or  sanctuary  begins — whence  no 
man  (whatever  his  crime)  may  be  dragged. 
Through  the  doorway,  I  can  see  the  base  of  a  great 
flag-pole,  surrounded  by  a  raiHng,  in  the  centre 
of  the  court;  and  beyond  that  an  enormous  can- 
delabra with  lanterns  hanging  in  front  of  the  vast 
door  of  the  shrine,  which  is  concealed  by  crimson 
curtains  looped  up  at  one  side.  It  is  irritating 
to  be  forbidden  ingress;  however,  standing  out- 
side, the  adventures  of  that  Gamber  Ali  who  here 
took  bast,  in  the  wonderful  tale  by  the  great  but 
little-read  writer,  Gobineau;  and  the  visit  of  that 
magnificent  Fath  'All  Shah,  the  dust  of  whose 
broad  shoulders,  wasp  waist,  and  ambrosial  beard, 
lies  interred  within, — are  probably  far  more  real 
to  me  than  if  I  stood  in  the  sanctuary  itself. 

At  the  top  of  the  steps  leading  to  the  shrine 
door,  a  white-headed  old  man  is  seated,  chanting 
or  rather  screaming  in  a  constantly  ascending 
scale.  Husayn  tells  me  he  is  praising  the  name 
of  'All  and  vigorously  cursing  the  'Umayyad 
Khalifs,  according  to  the  custom  once  universal 
among  Shi'ites.  This  neglected  old  court  outside 
the  famous  shrine,  is  a  charming  place,  perhaps 
the  pleasantest  I  have  found  in  Persia;  but  the 
abandoned  cells  where  students  once  toiled,  give 
poignancy  to  the  recollection  of  Jami's  lines: — 

"The  guests  have  drunk  the  wine  and  are  departed, 
Leaving  their  empty  bowls  behind — not  one 
To  carry  on  the  revel,  cup  in  hand!" 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  251 

March  28*.^ 
Last  night  a  wild  wind  sprang  up,  whirHng  the 
dust  in  clouds.  As  night  fell,  the  lanterns  sus- 
pended between  the  minarets  of  Fatima's  shrine, 
began  to  fleck  the  blackness  with  dots  of  gold. 
Then  the  wind  raged  in  torment  through  the  dark, 
and  all  night  at  intervals  I  heard  that  passing 
sound  of  camel-bells,  which  hereafter  will  always 
for  me  evoke  Persia. 

When  Said  called  me  at  four  o'clock,  it  was  still 
night  with  no  sign  of  dawn ;  but  now — a  little  after 
five — darkness  is  in  rapid  retreat  before  a  cold 
grey  light.  When  my  newly  rented  diligence  has 
been  made  ready,  we  start  across  the  hardby 
bridge;  the  river-bed  is  at  this  hour  so  dark  a  grey 
it  almost  appears  black ;  while  the  tiles  on  Fatima's 
shrine  glisten  like  the  scales  of  a  fish  still  wet.  This 
half-light  is,  nevertheless,  quite  different  from  that 
at  evening;  crepuscular  light  suggests  death;  here 
the  rays,  even  when  feeble,  have  a  glitter  which 
instantly  suggests  force  growing  into  life.  In  the 
bazars  it  is  night  yet,  with  little  lanterns  hung  at 
intervals  still  burning;  a  man  precedes  us  on  foot 
to  clear  the  way,  our  horse-bells  jangling  the 
while.  When  we  reach  the  outskirts  of  the  city, 
the  eastern  sky  is  of  gold,  and  the  western  deli- 
cately streaked  with  rosy  cloudlets.  To  one  side 
stand  four  or  five  octagonal  brick  pavilions  sur- 
mounted by  conical  roofs,  from  which  nearly  all 
the  tiles  have  fallen,  but  each  one  crowned  by  a 
large  stork' s-nest.     When  we  emerge  from  the 


252      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

last  buildings,  the  sun  is  just  swinging  over  the 
horizon  through  the  keen  fresh  air;  all  around  us 
are  bright  fields  of  green  grain  and  tinted  hills. 
Before  long  we  pass  a  white  something  on  the 
other  side  of  a  field ;  in  the  distance  it  looks  like  a 
pillar  of  salt  hewn  into  a  rough  likeness  of  a 
human  form.  It  is  the  body  of  a  man  who  has 
been  gached;  that  is  to  say,  surrovmded  with  wet 
plaster  imtil  crushed  to  death.  This  barbarous 
punishment  is  still  in  use  in  hodiernal  Persia;  in  a 
land  where  the  great  nobles  appropriate  vast 
sums  of  public  money,  death  was,  in  the  present 
instance,  inflicted  in  this  atrocious  manner  upon 
a  man  who  had  stolen  a  few  cucumbers,  by  a 
gendarme  belonging  to  the  force  organised  by 
Swedish  officers!  This  particular  soldier  had  one 
moment  of  humanity,  since  he  shot  the  tortured 
creature  through  the  head  at  the  end  of  several 
hours  of  agony.  This  horrid  object  bedims  all  the 
freshness  of  early  morning,  filling  me  with  loathing 
for  what  human  nature  sometimes  becomes. 

We  are  now  in  the  midst  of  waste  country, 
skirting  a  toothed  ridge  with  snow-peaks  behind 
it.  The  road  winds  upward,  with  the  desert  to 
left  of  us  stretching  as  far  as  eye  can  reach — at 
first  reddish  brown,  then  buff  fading  to  cream,  with 
white  streaks  where  salt  deposits  occur.  The 
colours  of  this  scenery  are  very  fine,  but  it  soon 
grows  wearisome,  not  so  much  on  account  of  its 
monotony,  as  because  its  aridity  depresses.  Col- 
our is  also  beautiful  in  countries  less  barren;  the 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  253 

hues  of  a  great  sea  of  tossing  boughs,  viewed  from  a 
hill-crest,  are  quite  as  lovely  and  have  the  advan- 
tage of  being  live.  This  is  desolation  and  death — 
nature  in  her  most  sterile,  if  not  her  most  cruel 
mood.  However,  it  is  such  a  relief  to  ride  in  a 
carriage  with  springs,  after  two  days  spent  in  a 
fourgon,  that  everything  seems  pleasant. 

At  the  noon  relay  there  is  not  a  single  horse,  so 
we  have  to  wait  until  ours  have  been  fed  and  rested. 
When  this  happens — as  it  does  frequently — one 
is  torn  between  a  desire  to  spare  the  wretched 
beasts,  and  eagerness  to  hurry  their  rest,  so  as  to 
finish  the  greatest  possible  number  of  the  weary 
miles  ahead.  During  the  next  stage,  there  are 
more  signs  of  life  than  usual.  Our  driver  is  par- 
ticularly bestialised ;  all  of  them  smoke  a  mixture 
of  opium  that  stupefies  their  already  small  intel- 
ligence, and  this  fellow  has  probably  just  had  a 
strong  pipe-full.  No  one  who  realises  what  their 
life  must  be  can  however  blame  them,  since  to 
such  misery  some  form  of  intoxication  is  a  neces- 
sity, not  a  vice Ahead  of  us  is  a  mud 

bridge,  beyond  which  the  road  turns  at  a  right 
angle.  When  we  cross,  the  driver  manages  to  let 
the  hind  wheels  slip  off  the  bridge;  the  diligence 
drops,  then  sways  violently  from  side  to  side  as 
though  about  to  turn  over.  I  seize  the  side,  but 
expect  the  carriage  to  right  itself,  as  it  has  always 
done  so  on  similar  occasions.  This  time,  however, 
it  gives  a  tremendous  lurch,  and  there  is  no  doubt 
whatever  that  it  is  going  to  upset.     I  clutch  the 


254     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

railing  on  the  roof,  running  no  particular  risk 
since  I  am  on  the  upper  side,  but  am  afraid  lest 
my  feet  strike  Said  as  we  go  over  on  his  side.  He 
is  in  real  danger  of  being  flung  out  and  crushed 
imder  the  luggage-laden  roof;  instead  of  thinking 
about  himself,  he  puts  up  one  arm  to  support  me. 
With  another  lurch  and  a  terrific  crash,  the  dili- 
gence turns  completely  over  on  its  side.  Fortu- 
nately it  falls  slowly,  and  Said  is  unhiut.  When 
we  pick  ourselves  up,  we  are  imprisoned  in  a  cage 
higher  than  our  shoulders.  Climbing  out,  I  find 
that  the  driver  has  fallen  gently  from  the  box  onto 
an  inclined  bank  of  earth,  where  he  could  not 
possibly  hiu-t  himself;  notwithstanding,  he  is 
lying  on  his  belly — writhing  and  rubbing  his  back. 
Husayn  crawls  out  from  the  rear  compartment 
unhurt  but  whimpering  like  a  baby.  Said  dives 
into  the  wreckage,  rescues  my  camera,  and  hands 
it  to  me  with  the  remark,  that  a  photograph  of 
this  will  make  a  pleasant  souvenir  of  a  trip  through 
Persia.  At  first  it  looks  as  though  one  of  the 
horses  had  broken  his  hind  leg,  but  it  turns  out 
that  he  is  only  pinned  down  under  the  traces; 
by  some  miracle  neither  carriage-pole,  wheels, 
nor  axles,  are  broken.  Luckily  we  are  near  a 
village,  so  men  who  have  been  working  in  the 
fields,  come  to  our  assistance.  Of  course  the 
driver  wishes  to  raise  the  waggon  with  two  of 
the  horses  still  harnessed  to  it,  and  a  third  pulling 
in  a  position  where  the  carriage,  in  righting  itself, 
would  probably  crush  him.     After  a  long  struggle 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  255 

the  diligence  is  finally  set  on  its  wheels  again, 
quite  unharmed;  I  can  scarcely  believe  my  eyes, 
for  I  had  visions  of  staying  at  the  village  in- 
definitely, while  someone  went  back  to  Qum  to 
fetch  another  conveyance.  When  the  luggage 
has  been  reloaded,  and  my  scattered  kit  packed 
in  the  carriage  again,  we  end  this  break  in  the 
monotony  of  travel  by  sedately  driving  up  to  the 
post-house  for  a  change  of  horses. 

Then  we  start  across  a  sandy  plain,  broken  by 
green  fields  of  cereal.  The  going  is  very  bad,  and 
the  weary  animals  scarcely  able  to  crawl.  The 
sunset  is  impressive:  a  wisp  of  liquid  gold,  with 
flames  of  pink  whirling  across  a  sky  of  robin 's-egg 
blue.  As  light  and  colour  die,  a  new  moon  mounts 
through  the  darkness — its  entire  orb  faintly  vis- 
ible above  a  thin  white  crescent.  When  night  has 
fallen,  I  tie  my  own  lantern  to  the  side  of  the 
carriage,  since  it  would  be  impossible  to  advance 
otherwise.  The  sound  of  wheels  dragging  through 
sand  grows  irksome,  and  the  stage  seems  endless. 
Gradually  the  smell  of  verdure,  borne  on  the  night 
air,  tells  me  we  are  passing  through  cultivated 
fields,  so  Kashan  must  be  close  at  hand.  The 
road  runs  through  a  kind  of  gully,  up  whose  em- 
bankments the  coachman  keeps  driving,  while  I 
expect  to  upset  every  minute.  About  eight  o'clock 
we  reach  the  post-house  only  to  learn  that  we 
must  drive  back  to  find  the  rest-rooms  in  the 
telegraph-station,  outside  the  walls  on  the  road 
by  which  we  entered.     Travellers  soon  begin  to 


256     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

look  forward  eagerly  to  the  nights  spent  in  the 
clean  and  comfortable  quarters  maintained  for 
their  use  by  the  Indo-European  Telegraph  De- 
partment. Nevertheless  I  go  to  bed,  cursing  the 
day  I  started  to  travel  in  the  most  uninteresting 
country  I  have  ever  seen. 


March  29*? 
We  arrived  too  late  last  night  to  make  as  early 
a  start  as  usual  this  morning ;  so  I  wake  to  find  a 
radiant  sun  already  up.  Green  fields  of  grain, 
a-glitter  in  the  sunlight  and  varying  from  emerald 
to  yellow  green,  stretch  away  to  the  walls  of  the 
city — the  usual  collection  of  mud  houses  with  a 
great  dome  in  the  centre,  without  tiles  and  looking 
as  though  it  always  had  been  so.  Kashan  may 
have  been  an  interesting  place  in  the  days  when : 
"A  more  industrious  and  civil  People,  or  a  town 
better  governed,  Persia  elsewhere  has  not";  but 
this  morning  neither  it  nor  the  nearby  pleasure- 
dwelling  of  Shah  'Abbas,  can  detain  me.  My 
habitual  desire  to  linger  and  see  all  I  can,  died  on 
the  road  to  Tihran;  now  my  only  thought  is  to 
reach  places — indeed,  I  am  beginning  to  sympa- 
thise with  persons  who  boast  of  the  short  time 
they  spent  in  going  from  town  to  town.  Husayn 
manages  to  have  things  ready  in  the  morning,  and 
so  far  we  have  started  without  disputes  and  blows; 
it  must  however  be  due  to  luck,  for  he  is  proving 
even  a  sorrier  specimen  of  manhood  than  Aghajan. 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  257 

Beyond  Kashan  the  road  crosses  a  real  sand 
desert,  which  makes  progress  laborious.  To  the 
right  are  jagged  black  mountains  capped  with 
snow,  which  seems  peculiar  on  summits  apparently 
so  low.  On  the  left,  yellow  dunes  of  sand  un- 
dulate toward  a  line  of  small  hills:  first  an 
expanse  of  violet-grey  that  appears  to  rise 
like  a  wall;  then  pointed  rocks,  blackish  and 
streaked  with  lavender,  grey,  and  even  white. 
These  hills  are  so  dark,  it  is  difficult  to  re- 
cognise in  them  anything  so  suggestive  of 
brilliance  as  violet  and  lavender;  but  close  scrut- 
iny shows  them  to  be  really  striped  with  dull 
shades  of  these  colours The  coach- 
man is  hidden  from  me  by  a  wooden  partition, 
but  I  suspect  him  of  frequently  falling  asleep; 
so  Said  and  I  keep  putting  our  heads  out,  and 
invariably  find  him  stretched  on  the  box  in  deep 
slumber,  from  which  he  has  to  be  aroused  by 
shouts  and  poking  with  a  stick.  Probably  the 
driver  was  more  or  less  asleep  when  he  upset  us 
yesterday — an  experience  I  have  no  desire  to 
repeat.  A  large  dirty  grey  vulture,  with  a  loath- 
some neck  and  beak,  is  devouring  a  camel's 
putrid  carcass  beside  the  road.  Had  Baudelaire 
travelled  in  Persia,  his  celebrated  verses  could 
not  have  described  these  scenes  with  greater 
accuracy : — 

"  Au  ddtour  d'un  sentier  una  charogne  inf^me 
Sur  un  lit  semd  de  cailloux, 
17 


258     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

Les  jambes  en  I'air  comme  une  femme  lubrique, 

Bi^lante  et  suant  les  poisons, 
Ouvrait  d'une  fa^on  nonchalante  et  cynique 

Son  ventre  plein  d'exhalaisons." 

During  the  next  stage  our  driver  remains  awake, 
a  fact  I  realise  by  the  way  he  chirrups  steadily 
to  his  horses.  This  real  desert  of  dust,  stone,  and 
sand,  is  for  some  reason — perhaps  because  it 
really  is  desert — less  trying  than  the  barren  scenery 
of  yesterday.  Occasionally  we  pass  a  chain  of 
those  wells  which  are  so  frequent  a  sight  in  Persia, 
lining  the  roads  with  yellow  mounds  like  giant 
ant-hills.  They  are  close  together  and  connected 
by  tunnels  at  the  bottom,  making  an  aqueduct  to 
bring  water  from  the  hills.  Whenever  anyone 
wishes  to  draw  water,  a  rude  windlass  is  placed 
across  the  well-mouth;  apparently  this  does  not 
happen  often,  for  I  have  seldom  seen  water  being 
drawn.  It  would  seem  as  though  work  and  money 
might  make  the  barren  land  fruitful  here  in  Per- 
sia; for  it  is  astonishing  to  see  how  patches  of 
grain  grow  in  the  midst  of  what  appears  a  desert, 
whenever  a  man  has  had  enterprise  enough  to  till 
and  irrigate  it. 

At  the  relay  my  driver,  like  all  Persians,  never 
says  "thanks"  for  his  tip.  I  am  told  that  the 
Persian  language  contains  no  such  word;  this  may 
be  a  libel;  but  it  is  certain  that  the  poorer  class 
has  no  idea  of  showing  pleasure  or  gratitude  in 
any  form.     They  put  their  hands  together  and 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  259 

hold  them  out  to  catch  the  coins,  as  though  they 
were  a  handful  of  grain ;  then  they  look  to  see  how 
much  they  receive,  and  walk  off  without  a  word. 
Only  once  or  twice  have  I  been  thanked  by  a  word 
or  a  smile  for  gratuities  that  are — when  they  have 
driven  well — very  generous,  since  it  is  impossible 
not  to  feel  a  great  pity  for  men,  however  debased, 
who  endure  so  wretched  an  existence.  After 
lunch  I  rest  in  the  shade  of  an  archway,  framing  a 
view  of  tawny  desert  and  hills  of  rock,  across 
mingled  squares  of  verdant  grain  and  some  bright 
yellow  plant  like  mustard.  Little  birds  and 
crested  larks  flit  by,  twittering  softly.  A  peace- 
fulness  lying  over  all  things,  gradually  begins  to 
possess  even  me.  As  a  labourer  passes,  the  thought 
is  borne  home  that,  despite  the  fact  of  our  both 
being  men,  there  is  probably  not  a  single  idea 
common  to  us.  People  like  to  dwell  on  the  uni- 
versal nature  of  humariit}'';  the  fact  is  that  univer- 
sality is  restricted  to  a  few  more  or  less  primitive 
instincts,  and  that  the  differences  between  widely 
separated  civilisations  are  far  greater  than  the 
feelings  they  share.  Could  we  converse,  this 
Persian  peasant  and  I  would  scarcely  find  an  idea 
comprehensible  to  both  of  us.  What  a  mystery 
consciousness  is!  What  does  the  bird  hovering 
above  yonder  grain,  experience  at  this  moment, 
and  in  precisely  what  do  his  sensations  differ  from 
mine?  The  thought  that  we  are  probably  both 
emanations  of  one  spirit,  brings  to  mind  the  Persian 
mystics.     How,  beyond  all  words,  life  must  to 


26o     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

them  have  been  wonderful,  if  they  were  really 
conscious  of  the  actual  presence  of  God,  as  their 
songs  aver.  To  searching  men,  for  whose  consci- 
ousness God  is  no  more  than  an  unperceived  prob- 
ability, one  hour  of  so  transcendent  an  experience 
must  seem  worth  the  whole  of  such  life  as  they 
can  know.     Fantastic   musings   to   entertain   in 

the  shade  beside  a  Persian  road ! 

We  are  in  a  sand  desert  once  more,  where  the 
heat  is  so  great  I  have  to  drop  the  curtains  to 
exclude  the  glare.  In  the  centre  of  apparently 
botindless  tracts  of  sand,  we  come  upon  quite  a 
decently  built  house  or  station,  with  a  well  beside 
it  but  not  a  blade  of  green  in  sight.  Three  men 
appear, — what  can  their  lives  and  occupations 
be  in  this  terrible  solitude?  On  we  crawl,  to  the 
sound  of  our  wheels  slushing  through  sand.  Even 
in  this  desert  there  are  occasional  flocks  of  goats 
cropping  some  invisible  plant.  Persian  goats  al- 
ways seem  to  graze  in  a  peculiar  fashion,  stretched 
out  in  one  long  line  like  soldiers  under  orders. 
On  nearing  Dihabad,  a  reddish  heifer  strolls 
toward  us  as  though  curious  to  see  what  we  look 
like,  forcing  me  to  wonder  what  she  finds  to  live 
on  in  this  desert.  A  little  way  outside  the  village 
the  telegraph  employee — who  has  been  notified 
by  the  Kashan  office — rides  out  to  meet  us.  At 
Dihabad  there  is  a  pleasant  room  in  the  telegraph - 
station,  opposite  quarters  for  the  employee  and 
his  family,  who  of  course  scrutinise  all  my  move- 
ments.   This  being  only  an  intermediate  station, 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  261 

with  a  telephone  but  no  telegraph  instruments, 
there  is  only  a  Persian  workman  to  keep  the  place 
in  order.  At  the  regular  stations  the  operators 
are  almost  without  exception  Aitnenians,  whom 
Government — the  line  is  controlled  by  the  British 
Government — was  obliged  to  substitute  for  the 
Englishmen  first  employed,  since  the  solitary  life 
soon  caused   them   to  suffer   from   mental   and 

physical  disorders 

The  sun  has  set;  the  mountains — powdered 
with  snow — are  almost  black,  but  the  hills  behind 
which  the  sun  sank  are  bathed  in  a  greenish  haze. 
The  sky  above  them  is  still  lucent,  green-gold  shot 
with  rosy  shafts  of  light.  A  single  star  is  shining 
amid  the  radiance  of  the  west,  while  overhead  the 
new  moon  lies  in  the  vault  of  pale  but  intense 
blue  like  a  shard  of  white.  Sheep  and  cows  wend 
through  the  twilight  toward  the  village;  camels 
and  a  few  men  are  silhouetted  against  the  fading 
sky — the  sound  of  camel-bells  and  the  voice  of  a 
man  at  prayer,  enhancing  the  sense  of  stillness 
and  peace. 


March  30*?* 
This  morning  it  is  impossible  to  leave  until  I 
discover  the  stable  and  there  administer  to  the 
driver  those  kicks  and  cuffs  which  Loti  found 
obligatory  in  Persia.  When  we  start,  the  air  is 
chill,  but  with  advancing  day  it  warms,  as  we 
turn  our  back  on  the  desert  and  climb  the  hills 


262      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULP 

toward  Khafr.  Here  on  a  little  eminence  domi- 
nating the  village,  is  a  curious  long  building  like 
a  fortress,  whose  use  I  can  neither  divine  nor  ascer- 
tain. Two  dervishes  are  idling  by  the  road,  with 
their  high  rounded  bonnets  entirely  covered  with 
an  embroidery  of  fine  Arabic  script,  making  them 
look  like  a  magician's  head-dress.  From  here, 
the  road  winds  steeply  upward  between  bleak 
hills;  then  a  salt  desert  becomes  visible  far  below 
us — misty  white  and  grey-brown.  The  road  does 
not  descend  toward  it,  but  turns  sharply  to  the 
right,  sinking  down  to  a  half -ruined  village,  where 
there  is  a  fine  mosque  with  a  blue  dome  patterned 
with  diamond-shaped  ornaments  of  black  and 
white.  In  earlier  times  this  hamlet  must  have 
been  of  sufficient  importance  to  merit  the  burial 
of  an  imam  zdda  within  its  walls.  The  most 
superb  and  curly-haired  hog  that  ever  existed 
outside  of  a  Durer  wood-cut,  is  lording  it  in  the 
courtyard  of  the  relay  stable. 

The  road  now  crosses  a  dreary  upland  between 
low  hills,  imder  a  sky  of  sombre  grey.  Armed 
horsemen  suddenly  appear  ahead,  galloping  toward 
us;  to  be  ready  for  all  eventualities.  Said  and  I 
prepare  our  revolvers,  but  the  riders  prove  to  be 
nothing  more  dangerous  than  road-guards — whom 
I  believe  quite  capable  of  turning  robber,  were  a 
solitary  traveller  to  pass.  After  a  little  we  reach 
a  large  village,  where  innumerable  fruit-trees  are 
in  full  bloom.  Everywhere  they  spread  their 
boughs  over  the  earthen  walls,  feathery  white  as  if 


it^Qttiaaa 


mmmff!^tmm'iifipsgxBFirs^emimmmm^, 


Said  Drawing  Water  in  the  Desert 


The  Town  of  Khafr 


The  Dervishes  of  Khafr 
The  head-piece  of  the  left-hand  dervish  is  embroidered 
with  inscriptions 


Husayn  and  "  The  Footman  "  Rearranging  the  Luggage  that  had  to  be  Removed 
before  Passing  the  Main  Gate 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  263 

powdered  with  snow ;  here  and  there  almond  blos- 
soms stand  out  in  dull  pastel  pinks;  behind  the 
village  on  the  hill-slope  are  the  ruins  of  an  old 
citadel — like  village  and  hill  itself — built  of  dried 
clay.  In  this  dreary  light  the  blossoms  are 
really  grey  rather  than  white,  and  the  whole  scene 
looks  like  some  vision  of  a  Russian  fairy  land  in 
winter;  in  sunlight  it  must  typify  all  the  glories 

of  spring 

Wind  and  whirling  dust,  then  rain;  a  dreary 
plateau  of  bare  brown,  where  the  road  twists  be- 
tween earthy  hillocks ;  a  change  of  horses  in  a  heavy 
shower;  then  a  dismal  plain  with  the  setting  sun 
visible  through  a  rift  between  moimtains  and  inky 
clouds — a  wild  and  gloomy  scene,  in  some  strange 
way  reminiscent  of  those  Yorkshire  moors  which 
the  genius  of  the  Bronte  sisters  has  for  all  time 
depicted.  Night  has  come  when  we  enter  Mur- 
chikhurt,  twisting  between  walled  fields,  then 
skirting  the  high  bastioned  walls  of  the  town, 
looming  fantastically  above  us  in  the  feeble  light 
of  my  lantern,  with  here  and  there  rays  of  light 
falling  through  a  hole  in  the  fortification.  My 
small  and  dirty  room  is  situated  over  the  gates  of 
a  fortified  caravanserai,  before  which  a  stream 
passes  like  a  moat. 


March  31'.* 
The  sound  of  camel-bells  drove  sleep  away  at 
four  o'clock,  so  we  make  an  early  start.     The  road 


264     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

turns  sharply  to  the  south,  running  parallel  to  a 
distant  mountain-range.  The  first  village  at  which 
we  halt,  has  real  municipal  spirit,  inasmuch  as 
it  boasts  a  public  shelter  of  dried  earth  for  the 
relief  of  nature's  necessities.  It  is  of  course  built 
overhanging  the  stream  that  supplies  the  hamlet 
with  water.  Persians,  I  have  already  noticed, 
generally  relieve  themselves  by  preference  in 
brooks,  in  which  a  little  lower  down  they  drink 
and  wash.  From  here  we  have  a  wonderful  fellow 
on  the  box  beside  the  driver,  singing  lustily  all 
the  way;  Said  calls  him  our  "footman."  The 
minarets  of  Isfahan  soon  come  into  sight,  then 
we  pass  between  fields  with  curious  round  towers — 
dove-cotes  I  believe.  Men  are  at  work,  dressed 
in  pomegranate  robes  as  well  as  the  sap-green 
ones  frequent  since  Tihran,  all  of  them  new  for 
the  Nawruz  or  New  Year. 

Entering  the  town  is  a  perilous  affair;  the  road 
rises  on  embankments  to  dilapidated  bridges, 
where  we  nearly  fall  through  or  upset ;  then  passes 
through  deep  pools  of  water,  and  under  gateways 
of  dried  clay,  so  low  the  luggage  must  first  be 
removed;  our  "footman"  yelling  all  the  while 
more  loudly  than  any  motor-horn  in  Europe. 
When  actually  within  the  town  proper,  men  and 
women  fly  to  right  and  left  of  us  in  the  narrow 
streets,  gathering  up  their  belongings  as  best  they 
can.  We  dash  through  the  bazars,  small  boys, 
running  ahead  to  clear  the  way  in  hopes  of  money, 
while  our  "footman"  shrieks  and  waves  his  long 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  265 

pipe.  We  all  but  run  over  two  men  stripped  to 
the  waist,  beating  themselves  gently  with  small 
chains.  So  comic  and  noisy  an  entry  into  a  famous 
city  I  never  made  before.  At  last  we  reach  the 
gate  of  the  British  Consulate — to  my  surprise 
without  injury  to  ourselves  or  others.  That 
Isfahan  is  an  "old  city  of  ruins"  I  have  per- 
ceived; but  I  have  seen  no  sign  either  of  "its 
mystery,"  or  of  "its  fields  of  white  poppies  and 
its  garden  of  pink  roses"  of  which  Loti  writes  so 
alluringly. 


April  I*.* 
The  British  Consulate  is  a  charming  place  in 
which  to  pass  the  days,  while  visiting  Isfahan. 
High  walls — above  the  heads  of  passers-by — 
enclose  an  old  garden,  where  chindrs,  still  bare, 
grow  among  fruit-trees  in  full  blossom.  The  one- 
storey  white  buildings  are  situated  in  groups 
dividing  the  garden  into  three  parts;  the  smallest 
— without  a  sign  of  green — is  entirely  filled  with 
young  and  leafless  fruit-trees  covered  with  pink 
flowers,  some  of  them  so  dark  they  are  almost 
purple.  The  inner  garden — on  which  the  large 
room  I  occupy,  looks  out — has  almost  no  flowers 
except  a  few  vermilion  tulips;  but  the  waving 
chinar  and  almond- trees  make  it  pleasant.  The 
Consul  is  a  perfect  host,  gifted  with  the  keenest 
sense  of  humour ;  so  wherever  he  goes,  the  greatest 
of  all  boons — laughter — reigns. 


266     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

This  morning  my  first  visit  is  to  the  Madrasa 
of  Shah  Husayn  on  the  Chahar  Bagh.  This  famous 
avenue  was  once  a  glorious  promenade,  divided 
into  three  alleys  by  rows  of  plane-trees;  palaces, 
marble  fountains,  and  bushes  of  roses,  filled  the 
traveller  with  amazement.  In  our  own  time 
Loti  has  described  how  on  his  arrival :  "  de  chaque 
c6te  de  la  voie,  d'epais  buissons  de  roses  forment 
bordure;  derriere,  ce  sont  des  jardins  ou  Ton 
apergoit,  parmi  les  arbres  centenaires,  des  maisons 
ou  des  palais,  en  mines,  peut-^tre,  mais  on  ne  sait 
trop,  tant  la  feuillee  est  epaisse."  In  the  reign 
of  Shah  'Abbas,  this  avenue  was  the  scene  of  what 
a  Frenchman  has  admitted  to  be  "d'elegances  tel- 
les  que  Versailles  m^me  n'en  dut  point  connaitre." 
Here  all  the  splendour  immortalised  by  Persian 
miniaturists  really  passed  by  in  the  flesh,  covered 

with  brocade  and  fine  jewels They  have 

long  been  dust,  and  their  goodly  avenue  has 
fallen  upon  evil  days;  what  even  time  had  spared 
the  degenerate  Isfahani  have  in  the  last  twenty 
years  utterly  destroyed.  The  Chahar  Bagh  of 
to-day  is  not  more  than  a  broad  road,  shabby  and 
dusty,  passing  between  tumble-down  walls;  most 
of  the  trees  have  been  felled,  and  those  that  remain 
have  been  badly  pollarded  or  are  in  decay;  at  this 
season,  there  is  not  so  much  as  one  green  leaf  to 
alleviate  the  ruin.  The  three  alleys — the  centre  for 
cavaliers,  and  those  on  either  side  for  pedestrians 
• — have  long  been  obliterated;  of  marble  basins 
and  parterres  there  is  no  sign;  not  even  a  single 


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A  Dervish  in  Bukhara 
From  a  Photograph  by  Geoffrey  Dodge,  Esq. 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  267 

rivulet  runs  down  the  dirty  paths ;  not  a  rose-bush 
grows  throughout  the  whole  length  of  the  de- 
vastated avenue ;  no  palaces,  no  villas,  no  pictured 
balconies,  overhang  the  promenade;  nothing  is 
left  but  a  neglected  road  full  of  dust  and  desola- 
tion. Half-way  down  the  Chahar  Bagh,  the 
Madrasa  stands,  with  all  the  tiles  gone  from  the 
wings  and  only  a  few  left  over  the  entrance  arch. 
The  doors  however — though  battered,  defiled  with 
dust,  and  in  places  stripped  of  their  precious  coat- 
ing— are  still  very  fine;  they  are  covered  with 
plates  of  silver  repousse- work,  beautifully  executed, 
and — unlike  most  Persian  art,  which  is  highly 
conventionalised — very  realistic  in  treatment.  A 
huckster's  stand,  covered  with  grain  and  vege- 
tables, all  but  fills  the  vestibule.  Down  the  middle 
of  the  court,  a  long  tank  runs  between  the  silver 
trunks  of  lofty  plane-trees  now  denuded.  Two- 
storey  arcades  with  fine  tiling — each  arch  forming 
the  balcony  of  a  room — enclose  the  courtyard, 
which  the  tank  and  a  broad  walk  divide  into  four 
parterres.  In  the  centre  of  one  side  is  the  entrance 
to  a  mosque :  a  lofty  and  well-proportioned  arch- 
way buttressed  by  two  soaring  minarets  with 
their  terminal  cages  intact — the  whole  covered 
with  beautiful  tiling  laid  in  intricate  designs; 
between  these  a  noble  dome  swells  upward,  for  the 
most  part  still  retaining  its  exquisitely  blue  tiles 
covered  with  scroll-patterns  in  black  and  white. 
Anything  like  the  depth  and  intensity  of  the  blue 
in  these  old  Persian  glazes,  I  have  never  seen  and 


268     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

probably  shall  never  see  again,  since  the  art  of 

making  them  is  lost 

In  the  afternoon  I  ride  out  with  the  Consul,  to 
watch  a  game  of  that  polo  which  was  first  played 
here  in  Isfahan  centuries  ago,  but  of  which  the 
modem  Persian  knows  no  more  than  he  does  about 
the  works  of  Persian  art  treasured  in  the  museums 
of  Europe.  To  sit  a  good  horse  in  an  English 
saddle,  is  a  pleasure  I  have  not  experienced  for 
many  months.  We  cross  the  celebrated  but  dis- 
appointing bridge  of  'Allverdl  Khan.  Its  great 
length  makes  it  remarkable,  but  the  series  of  small 
arches  which  compose  it,  lacks  the  effect  of  wider 
spans ;  while  the  absence  of  a  central  or  important 
terminal  motive,  interrupting  its  monotony,  causes 
it  to  look  as  though  it  had  only  stopped  by  chance. 
We  next  ride  through  a  vast  cemetery  with  graves, 
marked  by  flat  slabs  of  brick,  strewn  among  little 
buildings  with  conical  roofs,  or  occasionally  a 
tiled  dome  rising  among  brown  walls  and  ruins, 
as  a  brilliant  tulip  might  grow  in  a  barren  garden. 
We  finally  reach  a  plain,  where  the  dust  rises  in 
such  clouds  as  completely  hide  the  polo-players. 
Here  there  is  a  fine  view  of  Isfahan  lying  in  a  bare 
plateau,  surrotmded  by  jagged  hills  and  distant 
snow-mountains.  The  conspicuous  features  are: 
the  lapis-lazuli  dome  of  the  Shah's  Mosque,  and 
the  square  silhouette  of  the  'All  Qapa,  with  its 
pillared  portico  high  in  the  air.  The  Madrasa 
cupola  is  also  prominent,  while  here  and  there 
earth-coloured  minarets  tower  over  the  city  like 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  269 

beautified  chimneys.  A  few  trees,  just  beginning 
to  burgeon,  spread  a  tinge  of  pale  green  round  the 
walls.  It  is  a  pretty  picture,  but  not  a  striking 
one;  in  my  visions  of  Isfahan,  something  far  nobler 
than  this  was  always  evoked  by  its  sounding  name. 
On  the  way  back,  we  ride  through  the  bazars; 
it  is  dusk  with  only  a  half-light  falling  through  the 
orifice  of  every  vault,  by  which  the  eye  can  hardly 
descry  what  objects  really  are.  This  jumble  of 
shops,  wares,  and  people,  fused  into  a  single  pic- 
ture of  dull  brown,  is  extremely  picturesque.  We 
next  cross  the  world-famous  square,  the  Maidan- 
i-Shah ;  it  is  a  narrow  rectangle  of  enormous  dimen- 
sions, entirely  empty  except  for  two  low  pillars 
of  sto^e  at  either  end — the  goal-posts  employed 
in  the  games  of  polo  that  used  to  be  played  with 
unparalleled  splendour  under  the  Shah's  imperial 
eyes.  The  conduit — lined  with  marble  and  filled 
with  running  water — which  surrounded  the  square 
in  days  when  Isfahan  filled  the  world  with  rumours 
of  her  glory,  still  remains;  but  muddy  water  now 
stagnates  between  broken  stones  in  what  is  little 
better  than  a  dirty  ditch.  Of  the  avenue  of  stately 
trees  bordering  the  square  with  delicious  shade, 
nothing  remains  but  a  few  straggling  trees.  The 
square  is  enclosed  by  an  endless  succession  of  two- 
storey  arcades  of  tawny  brick ;  broken  in  the  centre 
of  the  southern  and  smaller  side,  where  the 
entrance  to  the  Masjid-i-Shah  thrusts  ablaze  of  col- 
our through  the  monotonously  flat  walls.  A  great 
archway  flanked  by  minarets,  is  recessed  between 


270     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

retreating  wings;  every  inch  of  the  surface  glows 
with  tiles  of  lapis-lazuli  and  turquoise,  as  intensely 
coloured  as,  and  almost  more  brilliant  than,  pre- 
cious stones.  A  broad  band  encircles  the  portal, 
filled  with  an  inscription  in  superbly  decorative 
Arabic  script — white  letters  on  a  ground  of  sap- 
phire. In  order  that  the  mosque  may  face  toward 
Mecca,  it  has  been  built  with  its  axis  at  an  acute 
angle  to  that  of  the  square  and  its  own  portal; 
the  effect  is  peculiar,  as  in  this  way  the  walls  of  the 
mosque  appear  behind  the  arcades,  slanting  toward 
them  far  to  the  right  of  the  gateway,  almost  at 
the  comer  of  the  square; — first  of  all,  the  top  of  an 
arch  between  its  minars,  then  a  great  dome  of 
greenish  blue  tile  with  scroll  designs,  then  yet 
further  to  the  right  a  small  wooden  pavilion 
perched  on  top  of  a  wall,  of  which  only  the  back 
or  untiled  surface  is  visible.  Any  endeavour  to 
suggest  in  words  the  richness  of  colour  and  the 
intricacy  of  design,  which  turn  this  mosque  into 
one  vast  piece  of  jewellery,  would  only  result  in 
confusion.  The  one  thing  that  might  suggest 
them,  would  be  to  imagine  a  Renaissance  enamel 
enlarged  a  thousand-fold  and  set  up  under  the 
brilliance  of  a  southern  sun. 

The  smaller  Lutf  Allah  Mosque  interrupts  the 
eastern  arcade,  with  its  low  dome  of  brownish 
orange  tiles  covered  with  intricate  scrolls.  The 
northern  end  of  the  square  is  nearly  filled  by  the 
crumbling  brick  walls  and  screens  of  rotting  wood, 
which  compose  the  three-storey  entrance  to  the 


The  British  Consulate,  Isfahan 


TEC  -  ART  STUDIOS,_lNC. 


Hindu  Suwars  of  the  British  Consulate,  Isafahan 


Courtyard  of  Shah  Husayn's  Madrasa,  Isfahan 
Photograph  by  £.  Bristow,  Esq. 


The  Bridge  of  'Aliverdi  Khan,  Isfahan 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  271 

bazars.  The  western  side  is  diversified  by  two 
turrets,  and  the  most  curious  building  in  all 
Isfahan — the  'All  Qapu.  Two  storeys  of  brick 
— the  same  height  as  the  surrounding  arcades — 
project  far  into  the  square.  On  top  of  this  is  a 
taldr  or  portico,  where  three  rows  of  wooden 
shafts — slender  as  poles — support  a  wooden  roof. 
Behind  this  a  donjon-like  building  rises  above  the 
arcades  and  the  portico  roof.  This  small  and 
singular  edifice  was  a  royal  dwelling,  in  whose 
taldr  the  Shah  sat  enthroned — with  a  magnificence 
probably  never  surpassed — to  watch  the  games  of 
polo  or  other  ceremonies  in  the  square  below. 
To  look  up  and  see  the  Shah  with  all  his  court  in 
the  shade  of  this  lofty  porch,  must  have  been  a 
sight  whose  like  no  man  will  ever  see  in  our  world 
of  machines  and  democracy. 

The  'All  Qapu  and  the  whole  square  are  ruinous 
and — what  is  worse — shabby.  The  reason  why 
everything  in  Persia  seems  so  sordid  in  its  decay, 
is  not  hard  to  find.  The  Persians  had  little  or  no 
architectural  sense,  their  talent  being  decorative; 
their  buildings  have,  therefore,  none  of  that  nobil- 
ity of  mass  and  disposition  which  remains  digni- 
fied even  when  ruined.  The  beauty  of  their  work 
is  entirely  due  to  an  intricate  veneer  of  brilliant 
colour ;  when  this  has  been  damaged  or  lost,  nothing 
is  left  but  a  skeleton  of  rotting  wood  and  shabby 
brick,  whose  neglected  aspect  only  inspires 
repulsion. 

No  one  can  help  being  impressed  by  the  en- 


272      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

amelled  brilliance  of  the  great  mosque  at  the  end 
of  the  square,  or  fail  to  realise  that  the  vast  extent 
of  the  Maidan-i-Shah  is  in  itself  grandiose;  none 
the  less  Loti's  statement  that  it — "n'  a  d'egale 
dans  aucune  de  nos  villes  d 'Europe,  ni  comma 
dimensions,  ni  comme  magnificence,"  is  frankly 
ridiculous.  Had  he  recalled  the  existence  of  Rome 
and  his  own  Paris,  he  might  have  moderated  this 
hyperbole.  The  Maidan  may  cover  more  ground 
than  any  square  in  Europe,  but  it  is  not  to-day — 
and  never  could  have  been — "magnificent,"  for 
reasons  that  any  architect  will  instantly  perceive. 
The  arcades  surrounding  the  square  have  neither 
scale  nor  dignity  of  design,  and  their  endless 
repetition  is  monotonous.  The  square  was  not 
conceived  as  an  architectural  whole  with  a  well- 
planned  effect.  The  buildings  that  interrupt  the 
wearisome  sides,  are  placed  haphazard  and  not 
on  the  axes  of  the  square.  Finally  the  entrance 
to  the  Shah's  Mosque,  which  ought  to  dominate 
everything,  is  recessed  instead  of  projecting  beyond 
the  adjacent  buildings.  This  belittles  the  portal 
itself  and  makes  it  seem  crowded  back;  it  also 
destroys  the  enclosed  feeling  that  a  public  square 
such  as  this,  ought  to  create,  producing  in  its 
place  a  weak  effect,  as  though  the  buildings  had 
collapsed  at  one  end.  To  say  that  this  square 
surpasses  the  perfect  conception  of  the  Place  de 
la  Concorde,  or  even  the  picturesqueness  of  some 
of  the  Roman  piazze,  is  an  error  of  judgment. 
These  faults  notwithstanding,  the  Maidan-i-Shah 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  273 

is  a  splendid  square;  when,  in  the  days  of  its  glory, 
its  monuments  were  intact,  the  'All  Qapu  ablaze 
with  the  Shah's  court,  and  its  whole  vast  expanse 
crowded  with  brightly  robed  polo-players  and 
spectators,  it  must  have  offered  a  spectacle  such 
as  no  European  city  could  ever  boast. 


April  2'V^ 
In  Isfahan  the  beggars,  who  in  hundreds  infest 
the  streets,  offer  a  horrid  spectacle  none  can  escape. 
The  misery  must  be  great,  but  there  is  no  doubt 
that  begging  is  a  profession  here.  Women — 
veiled  and  unveiled — sit  in  the  dust  beside  the 
walls,  with  their  children  drowsing  across  their 
knees,  or  stretched  out  beside  them  motionless 
like  corpses.  They  sob  or  moan  loudly,  and  must 
have  learned  to  weep  at  command,  for  their  face- 
veils  are  always  wet.  Little  boys  of  eight  or  ten, 
quite  naked  with  their  brown  skin  "laced  o'er" 
with  dust,  shiver  as  though  in  convulsions,  yet 
manage  to  run  after  one,  howling.  The  maimed 
and  diseased  of  course  abound,  the  cries  and 
importunities    of    all    these    wretched    creatures 

being  painful  to  hear 

The  Chihil  Sutun — or  Forty  Pillars — was  built  as 
a  throne  room  by  Shah  'Abbas,  in  what  must  have 
been  a  walled  garden,  but  is  now  a  neglected  en- 
closure where  a  few  trees  still  grow.  A  high  por- 
tico precedes  a  small  building  with  a  vast  niche 
— the  throne-chamber — behind  which  is  a  single 
18 


274     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

room;  it  stands  on  the  edge  of  a  long  tank  reflect- 
ing every  detail.  Its  name — the  Forty  Pillars — • 
is  a  subject  of  controversy,  since  the  portico  does 
not  contain  half  that  number;  some  think  that 
the  number  refers  to  the  columns  and  their  reflec- 
tions ;  but  as  these  do  not  total  forty,  it  is  probable 
that  forty  was  used  to  indicate  a  large  number — 
just  as  we  use  the  word  hundred.  The  shafts  of 
the  colonnade  are  of  wood,  as  slim  as  masts,  with 
elaborate  honeycomb  capitals.  The  ceiling  of  the 
porch  still  shows  traces  of  brilliant  colour  elabo- 
rately designed;  but  of  the  small  pieces  of  mirror 
which  encrusted,  as  with  shining  scales,  every 
inch  of  the  walls  and  columns,  nothing  is  left 
except  in  the  recess  where  the  throne  was  placed. 
Lord  Curzon  mentions  that  this  coating  of  mirror- 
work  held  in  place  by  gilded  lines,  existed  under  a 
coat  of  paint  when  he  was  in  Isfahan ;  but  to-day 
the  closest  scrutiny  can  find  no  trace  of  it  under 
the  green  paint  covering  the  walls.  The  bare 
columns  have  fortunately  been  left  unpainted. 
This  incrustation  with  bits  of  mirror  could  never 
have  been  in  itself  a  beautiful  decoration;  but  in 
sunlight  the  effect  must  have  been  gorgeous,  when 
the  Shah  was  seated  on  his  throne,  surrounded 
by  all  his  court,  and  every  facet  flashed  with  the 
multi-coloured  reflections  of  jewels  and  brocades, 
while  the  whole  scene  lay  duplicated  on  the  surface 
of  the  tank  below.  Even  to-day,  as  one  stands  at 
the  further  end  of  the  pool,  the  Chihil  Situn  rising 
atop  of  its  inverted  image,  forms  a  melancholy 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  275 

picture  full  of  charm.  The  pitiful  thing  is  that 
man  has  done  far  more  than  time  to  wreck  the 
glories  of  Isfahan;  wherever  I  go  here,  I  am  re- 
minded of  the  unconsciously  expressive  word 
employed  by  Aghajan  in  his  halting  translations, 
when  on  the  road  to  Tihran  my  Persian  hosts  used 
to  tell  me  how  I  would  have  admired  Isfahan 

before  the  last  fifteen  years  had  "  broken''  it 

In  the  side  porch  of  the  Chihil  Sutun,  the  vandal 
paint  has  spared  two  amusing  pictures  of  men  in 
the  costume  of  Louis  XIII,  undoubtedly  executed 
in  the  reign  of  his  contemporary  Shah  'Abbas,  who 
brought  European  artisans  to  Persia.  As  a  result 
Persian  pictures  in  the  European  style — often  of 
the  Holy  Family — are  frequently  to  be  found. 
The  large  apartment  behind  the  throne-room, 
contains  a  series  of  wall  paintings  of  the  highest 
interest,  depicting  the  court  of  Shah  'Abbas. 
They  represent  ceremonies  and  feasts — even  the 
intoxication  of  this  magnificent  Muhammadan 
monarch — and  abound  in  curious  representations 
of  the  customs,  costumes,  and  furniture  of  the  day.  ^ 
A  short  walk  brings  me  to  the  'All  Qapu,  which 
I  only  saw  from  the  outside  yesterday.  Across 
the  gate  that  gives  the  building  its  name — the 
Sublime  Porte — hangs  a  chain  wrapped  in  rags, 
conferring    the    right   of   sanctuary    on    whoever 

'  So  far  as  I  know,  these  pictures  have  never  been  reproduced ; 
it  was  therefore  a  great  disappointment,  when — after  leaving 
Isfahan — I  had  my  photographs  developed,  only  to  find  that  those 
of  the  paintings  in  question  were  complete  failures. 


276     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

touches  it.  Narrow  winding  stairs,  frequently  dark, 
lead  from  storey  to  storey;  how  splendid  sover- 
eigns in  wide-spreading  robes  ever  ascended  them, 
I  do  not  know.  With  the  exception  of  the  cere- 
monial portico  dominating  all  Isfahan,  the  build- 
ing is  composed  of  an  intricate  collection  of  small 
rooms,  dark  recesses,  and  narrow  passages;  no- 
thing could  be  less  like  what  the  word  palace  sug- 
gests to  Europeans.  It  was  of  course  only  a  small 
part  of  a  vast  agglomeration  of  royal  buildings; 
nevertheless  the  contrast  between  the  splendid 
scale  of  all  public  appearances  of  the  monarch 
and  the  exiguity  of  his  domestic  surroundings,  is 
as  striking  here  as  in  all  Oriental  countries.  In 
the  open  room  or  great  recess  behind  the  tdldVy 
two  faded  but  very  beautiful  frescoes  of  women, 
in  the  best  style  of  Persian  art,  still  remain.  In 
the  Isfahan  of  to-day,  no  Persian  ever  looks  at 
them,  or  lifts  one  finger  to  adjourn  their  speedy 
destruction;  whereas  in  any  European  capital 
they  would  command  large  prices  and  arouse 
enthusiasm.  The  lover  of  Persian  art  who  ven- 
tures into  Persia,  cannot  believe  that  he  is  really 
journeying  through  the  country  that  once  pro- 
duced the  v7ork  he  reveres,  for  no  signs  of  it  are 
left ;  when  he  does  chance  upon  such  examples  as 
these,  scaling  off  the  walls  among  heaps  of  refuse, 
he  almost  regrets  having  seen  their  degradation. 

Every  step  through  this  building,  once  a  marvel, 
is  to-day  painful.  The  rooms  are,  for  the  most 
part,  curiously  vaulted;  in  some  there  are  ceilings 


The  Maidan-i-Shah,  with  the  Shah's  Mosque,  Isfahan 
From  a  Photograph  by  E.  Bristow,  Esq. 


The  'AH  Qapu,  Isfahan 
From  a  Photograph  by  E.  Bristow,  Esq. 


The  Maidan-i-Shah,  wilh  the  Entrance  to  the  Bazars,  from  the  '  Ali  Qapu,  Isfahan 


r      r     • 


Pf^ 


].' 


#*^ 


1      ^      1     I     II 


'    L.  ;    1    '/,'jL,i 


The  Lutf  Allah  Mosque,  Maidan-i-Shah,  Isfah&n 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  277 

elaborately  painted;  in  others  walls  and  vaults 
are  covered  with  a  most  extraordinary  decoration 
— a  series  of  pigeon-holes  six  or  eight  inches  deep, 
and  of  varying  forms,  closed  by  sheets  of  plaster 
as  thin  as  cardboard,  pierced  with  a  single  opening, 
generally  shaped  like  a  long-necked  bottle.  Many 
rooms — particularly  the  smallest — are  covered  with 
elaborate  ornamentation,  made  by  drawing  com- 
plicated designs  on  plaster,  then  cutting  away  the 
background,  and  painting  with  a  hundred  colours 
the  slightly  raised  figures  thus  left.  Birds  and 
beasts  abound  among  formal  figures,  the  whole 
composing  a  rich  and  fanciful  decoration.  Every- 
where are  faint  vestiges  or  damaged  fragments — 
half  covered  with  plaster — of  beautiful  paintings, 
exposed  to  wind,  dust,  and  the  dung  of  birds; 
for  the  windows  are  either  entirely  open,  or  closed 
by  the  shattered  remnants  of  pierced  wooden 
screens.  Not  long  since,  the  authorities  proposed 
that  the  'All  Qapu  should  be  used  to  lodge  mem- 
bers of  the  gendarmerie,  and  its  doors  were  sold 
in  Tihran;  yet  this  defiled  building  must  in  its 
prime  have  been  a  masterpiece  of  fantastic  archi- 
tecture, a  fairy  dwelling  fit  for  artistically  ultra- 
refined  monarchs.  In  its  present  condition,  to 
visit  it  is  shocking,  since  it  can  only  be  described 
by  the  word  sordid  that  is  here  almost  an  obses- 
sion; anger  and  disgust  are  the  emotions  ex- 
perienced, for  vandalism — not  time — has  made 
of  this  masterwork  a  filthy  wreck. 

From  the  Maidan-i-Shah  I  stroll  through  the 


278     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

bazars,  mile  after  mile.  They  are  bustling  and 
picturesque,  although  the  brown  tone  predomi- 
nant in  light,  buildings,  and  even  clothes,  detracts 
somewhat  from  the  effect.  Some  of  the  men  wear 
that  lovely  shade  of  light  but  vivid  green,  which 
is  one  of  the  few  enchanting  sights  in  Persia ;  while 
from  time  to  time  a  claret-coloured  robe  passes 
by.  Here  in  Isfahan  turbans  are  numerous,  as 
well  as  the  universal  high  bonnet — like  the  mitre 
of  a  magus — that  still  retains  a  vague  suggestion 
of  the  hieratic,  altogether  out  of  keeping  with  the 
shabby  wearers.  These  turbans,  twisted  about 
skull-caps,  are  white  and  tightly  wound  on  the 
heads  of  merchants,  but  are  more  voluminous 
and  of  green  or  dark  blue  when  worn  by  sayyids. 
The  prevailing  hue  in  the  bazars  is  none  the  less 
dun ;  most  of  the  robes  are  camel-colour,  the  walls 
are  dusty  brown — in  places  black  with  smoke,  the 
earth  is  brown,  and  the  light  subdued;  conse- 
quently there  is  no  contrast.  But  the  bustle  and 
the  glimpses  into  shops  or  down  arched  passages 
into  caravanserai-courts,  strewn  with  bales  or 
filled  with  camels  around  a  water-tank,  make 
the  place  picturesque.  A  mule  or  a  horse,  occa- 
sionally a  camel,  pushes  its  way  through  the  crowd 
of  pedestrians,  amid  loud  cries  of  khabarddr  (look 
out!)  from  its  rider.  A  chain  festooned  across  a 
door,  indicates  a  mosque,  of  whose  forbidden  pre- 
cincts the  foreigner  can  in  passing  see  one  comer. 
The  fruit  vendors  deck  their  stalls  with  strips  of 
Turkey-red;  their  neat  piles  of  ruddy  pomegran- 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  279 

ates,  golden  oranges,  and  green-yellow  lemons, 
being  the  only  things  for  sale  which  tempt  the 
European.  The  mere  sight  of  most  of  the  sticky 
dirty  condiments  exposed  in  the  shops,  is  enough 
to  turn  the  stomach.  Well-ordered  pharmacies 
are  frequent;  generally  the  most  conspicuous 
object  is  a  case  of  Burroughs-Wellcome  remedies, 
displayed  in  the  middle  of  the  counter,  surrounded 
by  native  remedies  that  would  probably  make  the 
hair  of  Messrs.  Burroughs-Wellcome  turn  white. 
In  many  of  the  shops  quite  good  Chinese  jars  of 
blue  and  white  are  filled  with  sugar  and  other 
wares;  vendors  of  most,  sherbet,  stewed  fruit,  and 
similar  delicacies,  display  their  goods  in  variously 
shaped  bowls  of  deep  turquoise-blue,  that — how- 
ever cheap  here — are  a  delight  to  the  eye,  and 
would  elsewhere  be  prized. 

Yet  despite  of  all,  these  bazars  are  disappointing ! 
What  magic  used  to  lurk  in  their  name,  above  all 
in  the  words — the  bazars  of  Isfahan!  Is  there 
not  something  stirring  in  the  very  sound?  Stand- 
ing here  surrounded  by  the  reality  I  can  see  them 
as  they  used  to  appear  to  me  in  revery: — lofty 
arcades  and  long  stretches  of  umber  shadow  shot 
with  quivering  rays  of  warm  gold  sun;  gorgeous 
stuffs,  brocaded  and  brilliant,  brought  from  those 
realms  of  mystery  called  the  Orient,  are  exposed 
to  view  on  every  hand.  Veiled  women  and  slender 
men  throng  the  vaulted  ways,  where — in  shops 
like  sanctuaries — the  merchants  repose  cross- 
legged  as  idols  sit.     Probably  bazars  such  as  these 


28o     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

never  existed  outside  my  fancy,  since  sordid  reality 
must  here  have  been  present  even  in  the  days 
when  Shah  'Abbas  was  king;  nevertheless,  there 
surely  was  splendid  pageantry  in  bazars  that  were, 
at  that  time,  the  greatest  mart  in  all  the  East. 
Those  charming  personages  who  graced  the  great 
miniatures,  were  once  real  men,  not  mere  concep- 
tions of  an  artist;  they  must  have  ridden  down 
these  aisles  in  garments  stiff  with  embroidery, 
their  jewelled  aigrettes  nodding  and  sparkling  in 
front  of  fine  silk  turbans.  Sweeping  aside  the 
part  which  is  only  imagination,  what  a  difference 
between  the  Isfahan  of  Shah  'Abbas  and  that 
before  my  eyes!  These  vaulted  passages,  niche- 
like shops,  and  moving  throngs,  are  not  unpictur- 
esque;  but  the  crowd  is  poverty-stricken,  the 
clothes  shabby,  and  the  wares  on  sale  common- 
place. Looked  at  steadily,  these  bazars  are  much 
like  shopping  streets  in  any  country;  and  of  that 
Orient  of  dreams,  which  like  a  mirage  always 
recedes  the  further  we  travel,  there  is  not  even  a 

vestige 

These  being  NawrQz  holidays,  when  all  Persia 
idles  and  dons  its  best  clothes,  the  Chahar  Bagh 
is  thronged  this  afternoon.  In  the  second-storey 
arcades  of  the  Madrasa  men  are  sitting  in  groups 
cross-legged,  precisely  as  we  see  them  in  the  deli- 
cate paintings  which  illuminate  the  manuscripts 
of  three  centuries  ago.  Near  the  entrance,  men 
are  seated  on  platforms  smoking  (two  of  them 
opium)  under  an  awning  through  which  sun-rays 


Group  in  the  Court  of  the  Chihil  Situn,  Isfahan 


♦♦ 


't  ~.      t 


>   a, 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  281 

fall  on  the  groups,  where  green  robes  make  bril- 
liant spots  of  colour.  An  unbroken  stream  of 
pedestrians  moves  up  and  down  the  avenue, 
threaded  by  men  on  white  donkeys  with  orange 
trappings.  In  front  of  a  tea-house,  there  is  a 
plantation  of  young  wand-like  trees,  bare  except 
for  a  few  feathery  tufts  of  green;  in  the  alleys 
between  them,  men  are  seated  on  brown  mats  by 
threes  or  fours,  just  visible  through  the  slender 
stems;  the  scene  has  a  charm  of  colour  and  group- 
ing worthy  the  delicate  brush  of  an  old-time 
painter. 

The  court  of  the  Madrasa  is  full  of  men,  who 
crowd  about,  watching  us  curiously  and  probably 
with  disfavour;  at  least  they  do  not  express  it, 
so  it  is  curious  to  think  that  only  some  fifteen  years 
ago  foreigners  were  not  allowed  to  sleep  within 
the  walls  of  Isfahan,  and  were  obliged  to  reside 
in  the  Armenian  suburb  Julfa.  Admirers  of  Loti 
will  recall  his  vivid  description  of  the  way  in  which 
his  determination  to  lodge  inside  the  city,  was 
frustrated.  To-day  the  Isfahan!  treat  us  cour- 
teously, whatever  their  feelings  may  be.  Wind- 
ing up  narrow  stairs,  we  emerge  in  a  small  room 
with  lattice-windows,  behind  the  arched  wall 
cutting  off  the  corner  of  the  court.  This  arch 
frames  a  wonderful  view  of  silver  chindr  trunks 
and  jewelled  walls  and  dome,  above  the  upturned 
faces  of  the  crowd  following  our  movements. 
The  room  is  so  still  and  has  so  lovely  an  outlook, 
it  inspires  a  wish  to  retire  here  with  a  Persian 


282      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

teacher,   learn   the  language,   read   the  mystics, 

and  become  annihilated  in  contemplation 

From  the  roof,  the  courtyard  filled  with  the  won- 
derful colours  of  the  men's  new  robes,  is  an  en- 
chanted picture  never  to  be  forgotten.  The  gay 
throng  has  brought  to  life  yesterday's  deserted 
spot.  The  silvery  white  of  the  tree-trunks  seems 
to  shine;  the  long  narrow  tank  is  variegated,  like 
translucent  marble,  by  all  the  reflected  tints  of 
walls,  trees,  clouds,  and  sky;  opposite  us  the  great 
cupola  rests  between  its  stately  minars,  glowing 
softly  as  though  an  immense  blossom  of  turquoise 
and  sapphire,  between  whose  blues  the  contrast 
is  like  a  noble  chord  of  music.  Over  the  entrance 
portal,  a  wooden  pavilion  with  a  pyramidal  roof  is 
picturesquely  perched  close  to  the  leaning  boughs 
of  a  pine.  The  sun  is  low  but  still  brilliant; 
nacrous  masses  of  slowly  moving  cloud  diaper  the 
sky,  producing  a  constant  play  of  light  and  shade. 
The  blue  surfaces  seem  lucent  in  this  amber  light, 
and  have  lost  their  air  of  decay — perhaps  because 
the  living  crowd  has  destroyed  that  air  of  abandon, 
which  usually  reigns  in  the  Madrasa  of  Shah 
Husayn.  The  whole  scene  is  so  beautiful,  it  will 
always  stand  out  among  my  dreary  images  of 
Persia. 


April  3^.'^ 
This  being  the  thirteenth  day  of  Nawrflz,  is  a 
great  festival.     All  the  bridges  are  thronged  with 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAffiN  283 

people,  watching  the  water  as  it  whirls  past;  but 
the  finest  sight  is  the  Pul-i-Khaju,  both  on  account 
of  its  architecture  and  the  greater  number  of 
people  which  crowd  it.  Unlike  the  long  but  ill- 
arranged  bridge  of  'Aliverdi  Khan,  this  has  an 
important  central  motive  and  well-defined  ter- 
minals, forming  an  admirable  composition.  Its 
piers  act  as  a  dam,  down  which  the  water  falls 
foaming  through  every  arch,  while  in  front  of 
each  masonry  pillar,  steps  descend  to  the  river 
level.  The  sun  is  shining,  but  the  sky  is  filled 
with  grey  and  white  clouds,  moving  slowly  as  they 
fling  over  all  things  an  ever-shifting  chequer  of 
light  and  shade;  at  times  they  even  gather  in 
sombre  masses,  which  threaten  and  then  disperse. 
The  approaches  to  the  bridge  are  thronged;  in 
each  of  the  upper  arches — where  the  road  passes — 
groups  are  seated,  frequently  smoking  long  qalyuns; 
whilst  the  steps  and  piers  past  which  the  water 
is  roaring,  are  dotted  with  men  and  boys;  the 
most  picturesque  sight,  however,  is  the  flat  roof  of 
the  bridge,  and  more  particularly  of  the  central 
pavilion;  here  men  and  boys  stroll  or  sit  in  con- 
stantly changing  groups,  silhouetted  against  the 
sky,  with  mannered  outlines  that  would  have 
delighted  Bernini,  and  startle  me  by  their  resem- 
blance to  the  contorted  statues  on  the  church  of 
St.  John  Lateran  at  Rome. 

Even  more  beautiful  than  the  movement  and 
grouping  of  the  crowd,  is  its  colour.  The  mass  is 
brown,  but  profusely  sprinkled  with  both  the  shade 


284     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

of  brilliant  green  that  delights  me  more  than 
anything  in  Persia,  and  a  rose-purple  seen  for  the 
first  time  at  Isfahan.  This  colour  is  almost  iden- 
tical with  the  enchanting  tint  so  frequent  in  old 
Persian  miniatures;  when  new,  it  is  like  the  flesh 
of  pomegranates,  but  after  the  robe  has  been  worn, 
turns  a  faded  purple  like  that  of  red  roses  past 
their  prime.  The  greens  vary  between  clear 
sap-green  and  vivid  emerald.  At  Nawrtiz  every- 
one puts  on  his  best  or  new  clothes,  so  everything 
is  unusually  fresh  to-day.  The  charm  of  the 
scene  lies,  however,  not  so  much  in  the  brilliance, 
as  in  the  particular  nature  of  the  colours.  They  do 
not  offer  that  violent  contrast  of  barbaric  shades, 
which  is  so  wonderful  under  the  intolerable  blaze 
of  sun  in  desert  countries  such  as  inland  Algeria — 
the  most  satisfying  part  of  "the  Orient"  I  have 
ever  seen.  Here  the  colouring  is  bright,  yet  clear 
and  almost  cold,  with  much  of  the  transparency 
and  liquid  freshness  we  admire  in  the  art  of  those 
Persian  miniaturists,  one  of  whose  works  might 
almost  be  thought  to  have  come  to  life  to-day. 

A  few  hundred  yards  further  down  stream,  there 
is  a  most  unusual  view.  The  tawny  length  of  the 
many-arched  bridge  stretches  across  the  turbid 
river,  dashing  in  white  foam  down  the  piers,  then 
swirling  past  the  sandy  shore.  The  usually 
neglected  arcades  are  to-day  enlivened  by  the 
bright  colours  and  shifting  groups  of  holiday  idlers, 
that  from  a  distance  look  like  garlands  and  clumps 
of  flowers  decorating  the  old  bridge.     Across  the 


The  Chihil  Situn,  Isfahan 


Mauruz  Holiday  Crowd  outside  the  Madrasa  of  Shah  Husayn,  Isfahan 


Holiday  Crowd  Watching  the  Foreigners;  Madrasa  of 
Shah  Husayn,  Isfahan 


Isfah&ni  in  Holiday  Garb  at  the  Bridge  of  'Aliverdi  Kh&n,  Isfah&n 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  285 

muddy  rapids,  the  painted  walls  and  buff  gateway 
of  some  villa  are  half  hidden  behind  the  delicately 
intense  green  of  the  first  leaves.  A  little  further 
down,  crumbling  ruins  of  earth — an  Afghan  fort 
I  believe — stand  on  the  bank  in  front  of  the  city. 
Looking  down  the  river,  a  tracery  of  slim  branches 
just  feathered  with  budding  green  offers  through 
interstices  a  view  of  two  hills,  grey -blue  and  low, 
closing  the  prospect;  between  their  slopes  far 
distant  snow-mountains  are  just  visible,  hardly 
to  be  distinguished  from  a  sky  there  obscured  by 
storm-clouds,  whose  gloom  intensifies  the  brilliant 
sun  in  the  foreground. 

Riding  back  across  the  bridge,  we  enter  the 
town  and  pass  through  the  bazars.  Although 
nearly  deserted,  they  are  more  picturesque  than 
heretofore,  thanks  to  the  magic  with  which  noon- 
tide sun  invests  all  objects.  Sunbeams  full  of 
dancing  motes,  dart  through  every  vaulting-orifice, 
as  sharply  visible  as  tangible  shafts,  strewing  the 
dusty  road  with  luminous  squares.  The  uniform 
brown  of  yesterday  is  diversified  by  shifting 
light,  in  which  all  things  have  a  livelier  air.  In 
the  Maidan,  the  lapis-lazuli  and  turquoise  of  the 
mosque  seem  to  glow  and  flash,  enchanting  the 
eye  with  the  richness  of  their  colours.  The  flag 
on  the  'All  Qapu  flutters  gaily  in  the  warm  breezes, 
above  the  wooden  tdldr  and  battered  walls  that 
to-day  seem  less  shabby.  Camels  stand  about  in 
groups,  or  stride  slowly  across  the  square  in  files, 
linked    together   by    ropes    hanging   in    graceful 


286     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

curves,  while  a  camel-driver  directs  the  caravan, 
mounted  on  the  foremost  of  his  disdainful  animals, 
— for  the  nose  and  eye  of  a  camel  express  a  placid 
contempt  for  all  the  earth,  which  a  man's  most 
withering  glance  can  never  equal.  Watching 
them  pass  in  the  noon  hour,  it  is  almost  possible 
for  one  moment  to  visualise  this  vast  square, 
filled  with  the  moving  splendour  it  had  in  the  days 
when  the  subjects  of  Shah  'Abbas  were  the  most 

glorious  in  all  the  world 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  the  view  from  the  aerial 
portico  of  the  *Ali  Qapu  is  very  beautiful.  The 
light  is  still  intense,  but  more  ambered  than  at 
mid-day,  seeming  not  so  much  to  illumine  as  to 
fondle  all  it  touches.  The  immense  Maidan  lies 
at  my  feet,  in  that"  diverting  perspective  which 
comes  of  looking  down.  Directly  opposite,  the 
dome  of  the  Lutf  Allah  Mosque  breaks  the  long 
fiat  expanse  of  fawn-coloured  walls,  on  which  it 
rests  like  a  fire-opal;  to  the  right  the  Shah's 
Mosque  sparkles  as  though  incredible  mounds  of 
sapphire  were  spread  in  the  sun.  Here  and  there 
a  slender  minar — without  its  terminal  cage — soars 
above  the  stretches  of  buff  wall  and  domed  roofs, 
in  one  place  interrupted  by  the  jagged  walls  of 
the  ruined  fort  beside  the  river.  Budding  trees 
show  a  little  green  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city, 
beyond  which  two  finny  hills  of  rufous  earth  rise 
suddenly  out  of  a  barren  plain,  everywhere  else 
stretching  without  a  break  to  the  distant  girdle 
of  snow-mountains.     Over  everything  there  rests 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  287 

the  charm  of  blue  sky,  where  little  clouds  of  a 
soft  white  float. 

Most  of  the  Isfahan!  are  promenading  outside 
the  city,  so  the  square  is  all  but  empty,  and  the 
whole  scene  dream-like,  as  it  lies  in  mellow  sun- 
flood;  but  the  tdldr  resounds  with  echoes  of  a 
dervish's  voice,  telling  tales  beside  a  tea-house 
below.  His  audience  is  smoking,  seated  on  their 
heels  on  platforms  with  low  railings,  placed  in 
rows  along  the  walls  and  beside  the  conduit  run- 
ning round  the  square.  The  dervish  stands  in  the 
shade  of  one  of  the  few  trees  still  left,  dressed  in  a 
claret-coloured  undergarment  with  an  over-robe 
of  blue;  on  his  head  is  one  of  those  high  bonnets 
embroidered  in  black  with  inscriptions  hke  cabbal- 
istic signs.  He  recites  with  a  dramatic  and  highly 
inflected  voice,  and  a  profusion  of  gesture  not 
unworthy  of  an  actor, — now  standing  on  a  great 
stone,  now  walking  about,  or  again  seated  in  a 
chair  beside  the  tree-trunk.  Here,  before  my  eyes, 
is  the  living  novel  dear  to  all  Oriental  races,  since 
first  they  had  a  language;  doubtless  the  story  he 
is  telling,  is  some  old  romance,  which  centuries 
ago  roused  the  echoes  in  the  then  splendid  tdldr, 
whence  I  am  now  looking  out  on  all  that  time 
and  man  have  left  of  the  glory  that  once  was 
Isfahan 

To-night  there  is  a  young  moon,  and  from  the 
terrace  in  front  of  my  rooms,  the  Consulate  garden 
seems  a  land  of  departed  spirits.  The  cliindrs 
stand  out  in  rows  of  white,  like  ghosts  of  trees; 


288     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

and  in  the  net-work  of  slender  boughs  just  gar- 
landed with  green,  a  myriad  of  pallid  stars  appears 
enmeshed.  The  crescent  moon  floats  across  a 
tremulous  sky  of  sapphire. 


April  4*> 
I  have  decided  to  travel  from  here  to  Shiraz  by 
mule  caravan,  as  there  are  no  longer  any  relays 
of  post-horses  on  the  road — thanks  to  the  brigands 
who  burned  the  carriages  and  carried  off  all  the 
animals.  An  Ajmenian  will  guarantee  to  take 
me  and  my  kit  in  two  carriages  to  Shiraz  in  nine 
days;  but  it  is  doubtful  if  we  should  ever  arrive, 
and — should  anything  go  wrong — ^my  plight  on  a 
road  where  no  other  horses  and  no  conveyances  of 
any  sort  could  be  had,  would  be  far  worse  even 
than  it  was  in  Khurasan.  I  am  also  tired  of  the 
unceasing  worry  as  to  whether  the  carriages  will 
upset  or  fall  in  pieces  before  the  destination  has 
been  reached;  so  journeying  by  mule  seems  as 
though  it  might  be  a  relief,  despite  its  slowness. 
At  first  the  chdrwaddr  (head  muleteer)  demanded 
twenty -five  tumdns  for  each  mule;  but  the  Consu- 
late munshl  has  finally  secured  a  contract  for  seven 
mules  and  two  horses  to  carry  me  and  my  belong- 
ings to  Shiraz  in  thirteen  days,  at  eleven  tumdns, 
five  qirdns  per  beast.  The  contract  states  that 
the  animals  must  be  in  good  condition  and  have 
no  sores,  a  point  about  which  I  am  obdurate. 
The  two  horses — for  Said  and  me  to  ride — are 


TIHRAN  TO  ISFAHAN  289 

broken  down  and  covered  with  galls,  so  they  are 
promptly  rejected  and  others  procured  after  end- 
less disputes.  When  I  insist  on  seeing  the  mules 
without  any  pack-saddles,  the  wiles  employed  by 
the  muleteers  to  prevent  my  discovering  sores, 
are  remarkable.  I  must  have  looked  at  twenty, 
before  finding  seven  with  tolerably  sound  backs; 
on  starting  I  shall  have  to  inspect  them  once  more 
to  be  sure  that  others  have  not  been  substituted. 

Since  arriving  at  Isfahan,  I  have  made  the 

pleasant  discovery  that  my  interpreter,  Husayn, 
was  discharged  from  the  service  of  a  member  of 
the  British  Legation  at  TihrSn  for  theft. 
19 


The  Pul-i-Khaju,  Isfahan 
The  little  specks  on  top  of  the  bridge  are  Isfahan!,  celebrating  the  Mauruz  holidays 


Old  Pigeon  Tower  near  Isfahan 
From  a  Photograph  by  E.  Bristow,  Esq 


An  Isfahan!  Stork  with  a  Feeling  for  Decorative  Effects 
From  a  Photograph  by  E.  Bristow,  Esq. 


ijt' :  I 


My  Lodgings  at  MahySr 


V 
ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ 


291 


V 

ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ 

April  6^^ 
Although  I  am  not  to  leave  until  noon, 
the  bustle  of  departure  begins  at  an  early 
hour,  with  the  packing  of  my  kit,  the  wrap- 
ping of  luggage  in  gunny  and  water-proof  cloth, 
and  the  sorting  of  packages  into  loads  of  equal 
weight.  Sitting  in  the  loggia  at  limch,  the  Con- 
sulate garden  is  a  charming  spot,  with  its  silver- 
green  trees  outlined  against  a  sky  of  blue,  and 
spring  sun  flooding  every  comer  and  animating 
the  birds,  who  as  they  flit  past  make  the  air  musi- 
cal. I  am  loath  to  leave  this  pleasant  spot,  which 
my  kindly  host  fills  with  gaiety,  and  face  once 
more  the  discomforts  of  the  road.  Those  who 
have  benefited  by  hospitality  and  pleasant  com- 
pany only  in  civiHsed  countries,  cannot  appreciate 
their  full  worth;  it  is  only  realised  when  they  are 
enjoyed  in  such  remote  regions  as  these.  How- 
ever, since  it  is  not  possible  to  linger,  at  mid-day 
I  take  a  reluctant  departure  from  a  place  that  I 
shall  not  easily  forget. 

293 


294     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

It  has  been  decided,  on  the  assurance  of  the 
Governor  of  Isfahan,  that  I  shall  need  no  guards 
between  here  and  Qumisha.  His  official  declara- 
tion that  the  road  is  safe,  permits  me,  if  robbed, 
to  demand  indemnity  from  the  Persian  Govern- 
ment ;  as  the  Government  has  no  money  and  owes 
large  sums  to  travellers  who  have  been  robbed 
during  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years,  the  value  of 
this  privilege  is  dubious.  My  caravan  comprises 
six  mules  with  luggage,  one  laden  with  fodder, 
one  for  my  interpreter-thief,  two  horses — if  the 
poor  creatures  may  be  so  called — for  Said  and 
myself,  and  four  muleteers  on  foot.  The  speed  at 
which  we  shall  travel,  may  be  inferred  from  the 
muleteers'  ability  to  keep  up  with  the  animals. 
Each  mule  has  a  small  bell,  and  the  leader  a  large 
booming  one,  all  of  which  keep  up  a  merry  jingle. 
After  riding  down  the  devastated  Chahar  Bagh  and 
across  the  bridge  of  'Aliverdi  Khan,  we  wind  along 
through  hovels,  ruins,  and  grave-stones,  until  the 
road  begins  to  rise  toward  the  bare  russet  hills 
that  hem  in  the  plains  of  Isfahan  on  all  sides.  As 
we  ascend,  the  city  gradually  diminishes,  while 
the  yellow  tone  of  walls  and  roofs  scattered  among 
the  green,  loses  its  brilliance,  fading  to  a  rosy 
dust-colour.  The  square  mass  of  the  'All  Qapa 
still  towers  picturesquely  over  all,  and  the  iri- 
descent dome  of  the  Shah's  Mosque,  with  its 
slender  minars  grouped  about  it,  looms  large  and 
ablaze  with  blue.  The  half-tileless  cupola  of  the 
Madrasa  is  also  conspicuous  in  paler  blue  further 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  295 

to  the  left,  while  here  and  there  an  earth-coloured 
minaret  breaks  the  flat  expanse  of  terraced  roofs. 
In  the  foreground,  the  succession  of  imposing 
bridges  is  clearly  visible,  barring  the  river  with 
long  bands  of  golden  brown.  Beyond  the  city, 
far  across  the  plain  where  no  green  seems  to  grow, 
the  hills  rise  in  pale  mauve  streaked  with  umber 
and  grey.  Snow-capped  mountains  of  blackish 
purple  and  grey — the  colour  of  dark  grapes  covered 
with  bloom — close  the  panorama  with  their  faint 
outlines.  Before  me  the  ground  slopes  upward, 
brown,  barren,  and  strewn  with  stones,  while  to 
right  and  left  jagged  hills  close  in  around  the  trail. 
Slowly  their  shoulders  begin  to  hide  Isfahan, 
until  I  catch  my  last  sight  of  the  dome — now  pale 
turquoise — that  from  near  or  far  arrests  the 
wayfarer's  attention. 

The  spot  where  I  have  just  halted,  must  be  the 
same  from  which  Loti  enjoyed  his  first  view  of 
Isfahan.  The  white  fields  of  poppy  that  delighted 
him,  are  not  in  bloom  to-day — if  they  still  exist; 
but  of  things  yet  unchanged  his  beautiful  descrip- 
tion conveys  a  false  impression.  He  tells  how: 
"cette  ville  bleue,  cette  ville  de  turquoise  et  de 
lapis,  dans  la  lumi^re  du  matin,  s 'announce  in- 
vraisemblable  et  charmante  autant  qu'un  vieux 
conte  oriental."  This  phrase,  like  all  of  Loti's 
words,  is  a  piece  of  pure  sorcery,  but  is  none  the 
less  inaccurate.  The  general  effect  of  the  city 
wherever  viewed,  is  faint  greyish  yellow  tinged 
with  rose,  not  blue;  this  last  colour  being  confined 


296     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

to  a  few  bits  of  ruin  by  the  river,  and  to  the  two 
groups  formed  by  the  domes  and  minars  of  the 
Madrasa  and  the  Shah's  Mosque.  These  cupolas 
dominate  everything,  not  so  much  by  their  size, 
as  by  their  brilliant  blues,  which  are  in  sharp 
contrast  with  the  rest  of  the  dust-coloured  city. 
No  stretch  of  the  imagination  can  make  Isfahan 
as  a  whole  look  blue.  A  great  deal  of  faience  has 
undoubtedly  fallen  from  the  monuments,  since 
Loti  rode  from  the  south  to  see  the  now  vanished 
"roses  of  Isfahan";  but  even  in  those  days,  it 
cannot  have  been  true  that  beside  the  two  great 
domes — "un  peu  partout,  dans  les  lointains, 
d'autres  d6mes  bleus  se  m^lent  aux  cimes  des 
platanes,  d'autres  minarets  bleus,  d'autres  donjons 
bleus."  In  a  writer  who  can  by  sheer  magic  of 
style  describe  a  slum  so  it  seems  a  paradise,  such 

exaggerations  appear  unnecessary 

From  the  summit  where  I  am  standing,  the  road 
descends  to  a  new  and  smaller  amphitheatre  of  hill 
and  plain.  On  the  further  side  of  the  plateau 
below  me,  the  hills  rise  in  russet  ranges  and  iso- 
lated groups,  terminating  generally  in  a  serrated 
ridge  not  unlike  the  dorsal  fin  of  some  gigantic 
dragon;  indeed,  viewed  from  afar,  these  hill- 
chains  resemble  prehistoric  monsters  couching 
on  the  plain  in  spell-bound  rows.  On  reaching 
the  level,  stony  earth  gives  way  to  a  saline  marsh, 
where  water  oozes  forth  in  little  pools  and  streams, 
rippling  in  the  wind.  Far  away,  the  position  of 
villages  is  indicated  by  pigeon- towers,  with  a  central 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  297 

turret  resembling  a  knob,  strewn  over  the  meadowy- 
ground  like  the  castles  on  some  Gargantuan  chess- 
board. The  walls  of  Qal*a-i-Shur — our  first  stage 
— are  now  visible,  although  still  remote,  at  the 
foot  of  the  mountains.  When  caravanning  in 
Persia,  it  is  customary  to  make  the  first  ^tage  a 
short  one,  in  order  to  allow  for  the  delays  in  start- 
ing, not  to  mention  the  possibility  of  sending  back 
for  all  the  things  muleteers  have  forgotten.  My 
chdrwdddr  did  not  leave  with  us,  being  busied  with 
the  departure  of  other  caravans,  but  is  to  overtake 
us  this  evening. 

It  is  nearly  five  o'clock  when  we  reach  the  vil- 
lage. The  caravanserai  is  unusually  filthy,  and 
the  courtyard  filled  with  the  stench  of  a  horse's 
carcass  in  advanced  decomposition;  so  I  secure  a 
lodging  in  what  is,  for  Persia,  rather  a  charming 
spot — on  top  of  a  high  gateway,  fairly  clean  rooms 
with  windows  on  every  side.  I  am  now  writing 
in  a  covered  balcony  directly  over  the  gate;  I 
look  down  across  the  road  into  an  enclosed  orchard 
of  green  young  trees,  its  earthen  walls  rosj'-  in  the 
setting  sun;  further  away  the  plain  is  covered — 
as  though  by  snow — with  a  white  saline  deposit, 
that  extends  to  the  edge  of  a  shallow  expanse  of 
water,  where  a  flock  of  white  birds  can  just  be 
seen  floating.  At  the  foot  of  ribbed  hills  rising 
suddenly  from  the  level  ground,  a  village  nestles 
with  a  brown  dome,  a  minaret,  and  several  pigeon- 
towers,  standing  out  above  the  confused  group 
of  walls  and  trees.     To  the  left,  through  the  gap 


298     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

where  the  hills  sink  into  the  plain,  only  to  rear 
themselves  again  in  the  direction  of  those  we  have 
just  crossed, — the  snow-mountains  beyond  Isfahan 
draw  a  faintly  silvered  outline  across  a  sky  of  opal. 
The  sun  has  this  minute  dropped  out  of  sight; 
only  the  farthest  hills  still  glow  as  shadows  creep 
over  the  marsh,  and  the  white  expanse  turns 
greenish  yellow;  a  flock  of  goats  is  crowding 
through  the  gateway  below  my  balcony,  with  a 
curious  huddling  motion  like  the  flow  of  impeded 
water;  a  little  breeze  sways  the  first  leaves  of 
the  young  trees,  murmuring  as  it  passes;  and 
the  tinkling  sound  of  mule-bells  is  heard  in  the 

distance 

It  is  now  night,  and  a  crescive  moon  bathes 
everything  in  mystery -bringing  light;  the  stars, 
brilliant  but  few,  seem  carelessly  strewn  across 
the  grey-blue  dusk;  beyond  the  indistinguishable 
shadows  of  the  orchard,  the  salt  plain  stretches 
its  powdery  white  like  frozen  water  or  fields  of 
snow.  Were  the  earth  everywhere  the  same,  the 
effect  would  be  less  mysterious;  here  where  the 
mind  knows  that  neither  snow  nor  ice  can  be, 
yet  by  night  refuses  the  obvious  explanation,  the 
change  from  colourless  earth  to  a  sea  of  white  is 
startling.  There  is  no  sound,  save  that  of  wind 
moving  through  road-side  trees,  whose  bare 
boughs  in  this  subdued  light  form  a  haze  of  grey. 
Husayn  has  begun  to  play  one  of  those  peculiar 
Persian  guitars  that  look  as  though  cut  from  a 
tree  trunk  at  the  point  where  two  boughs — one 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  299 

larger  than  the  other — have  grown  together,  while 
still  keeping  their  separate  outlines.  Its  tone  is 
thinner  than  that  of  our  guitars,  more  like  a  man- 
dolin's, but  very  sweet.  Husayn  pla3''s  fairly 
well,  and  this  music — now  gay,  now  plaintive,  but 
always  graceful — is  the  one  thing  needed  to  perfect 
the  night,  as  I  sit  on  my  balcony,  looking  out  over 
the  moon-enchanted  landscape,  feeling  that  Persia 
for  the  first  time  in  some  measiire  approaches 
expectation. 


April  7*? 

The  sun  is  brilliant,   the  air  fresh  and  crisp, 

almost  sharp The  great  altitude  of  the 

vast  plateau  which  is  Persia,  makes  the  atmosphere 
pure  and  bracing;  yet,  except  when  a  sudden  lack 
of  breath  after  a  rapid  climb  recalls  the  fact,  it  is 
difficult  to  remember  that  the  barren  plains  and 
low  hills  one  crosses  so  wearily,  often  lie  higher 

than    passes    in    the    Alps Out    of   my 

window  the  little  lake  of  shallow  water  beyond 
the  white  deposits  of  salt  is  delicately  blue  this 
morning,  lending  the  whole  scene  an  I-know-not 
what  that  refreshes;  for  here  in  this  arid  land  the 
very  idea  of  water,  above  all  blue  water,  seems  a 
dream  of  more  favoured  worlds. 

The  telegraph-inspector,  whom  I  am  to  accom- 
pany as  far  as  Qumisha,  arrived  last  night;  at  the 
present  moment  his  mules  and  mine  are  grouped 
together,   undergoing  the  long  and  complicated 


300     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

process  of  being  loaded.  Those  who  have  never 
travelled  by  caravan,  cannot  realise  the  endless 
number  of  packages  that  have  to  be  loaded,  the 
length  of  time  it  takes  to  sort  them,  the  difficulty 
of  holding  them  in  place  until  fastened,  the  num- 
ber of  knots  to  be  tied  and  untied,  or  above  all  the 
quantity  of  forgotten  articles  that  must  be  at- 
tached somehow  when  once  the  mules  are  laden. 
At  last  everything  is  ready  and  we  start,  only  to 
halt  after  a  few  minutes  to  let  the  animals  drink 
at  a  stream  crossing  the  village  street.  It  is  im- 
possible to  know,  either  the  full  charm  of  clear 
running  water,  or  the  torment  of  not  daring  to 
drink  it,  until  one  travels  in  parched  countries. 
A  traveller  with  European  knowledge  of  the  sources 
of  disease,  would  in  such  places  give  all  the  wine 
in  the  world  for  one  pure  mountain-brook,  from 
which  to  take  an  unlimited  draught.  This  water 
appears  innocuous,  yet  a  few  yards  away,  opposite 
the  caravanserai  gates,  I  can  see  that  corruption 
is  not  confined  to  its  court ;  in  the  ditch  across  the 
road,  a  shaggy  white  dog  is  standing  beside  the 
putrid  carcass  of  a  horse,  its  paws  and  muzzles 
scarlet  with  carrion  blood. 

The  track,  for  in  all  Persia  there  is  hardly  any- 
thing that  could  be  called  a  real  road,  leads  be- 
tween rows  of  wells  like  giant  ant-heaps,  toward 
and  through  the  strangely  formed  hills  enfolding 
the  plain  we  crossed  yesterday.  It  rises  gradually 
among  the  bright  russet  hues  of  these  trenchant 
ridges,  then  passes  through  a  valley — if  this  ver- 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  301 

dure-suggesting  word  may  be  applied  to  the  brown 
waste  of  stony  earth  stretching  before  us.  After 
a  little,  the  way  is  barred  by  a  cliff,  where  a  path 
winds  upward  and  around  the  shoulder  of  the 
rock,  between  slaty  walls  in  a  diminutive  defile 
wrought  by  torrents  descending  in  ages  past. 
The  mules  scramble  up,  with  their  loads  banging 
against  the  rocky  sides,  and  their  bells  jangling 
out  a  tune  livelier  than  usual.  I  have  long  since 
taken  to  walking  as  a  pleasanter  means  of  progress 
than  sitting  my  sorry  horse,  who  is  outstripped  by 
all  the  mules,  and  can  only  be  kept  with  the  cara- 
van when  a  muleteer  walks  behind  him.  Here  I 
should  never  have  dared  trust  myself  to  his 
stumbling  paces. 

At  the  summit  a  group  of  men  is  waiting  beside 
a  ruined  house;  they  are  lujangchi  (road  guards), 
stalwart  fellows  on  foot,  with  guns  slung  across 
their  shoulders,  some  of  whom  insist  on  accom- 
panying us.  Big  and  fierce-looking  as  they  are, 
I  doubt  their  bravery ;  and  consider  their  company 
in  these  parts  a  nuisance,  whose  only  object  is 
to  extort  a  two  qirdn  piece  at  every  change  of 
escort.  My  chdrwaddr  arrived  last  night  and  has 
taken  command,  riding  ahead  of  the  caravan  on 
the  smallest  donkey  ever  seen.  He  is  called  Haji 
'Abbas  (the  word  Haji  being  a  prefix  assumed  by 
those  who  have  made  a  sacred  pilgrimage)  for  he 
is  a  much-travelled  individual,  who  has  been  several 
times  to  both  Mecca  and  Karbala.  To  hear  the 
name  of  the  most  splendid  of  the  Safawi  kings — ■ 


302      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  Grand  Sophies  of  our  ancestors — in  common 
use  for  muleteers,  is,  however  natural,  amusing  to  a 
foreigner.  Despite  his  title  and  his  name,  I  rather 
miss  the  lively  lad  in  an  indigo  robe,  who  yesterday 
took  the  chanvaddr's  place. 

The  sun  is  now  high,  and  the  morning  chill  has 
been  followed  by  real  heat,  so  walking  is  no  longer 
pleasant.  My  companion,  the  telegraph-inspector 
(who  has  lived  for  twenty-five  years  in  Persia, 
the  greater  part  of  the  time  alone  with  his  wife 
in  a  solitary  station)  entertains  me  with  tales  of 
adventure  and  attacks  while  travelling,  that  make 
me  realise  how  unsettled  a  country  Persia  has 
always  been.  The  plain  we  are  crawling  across, 
as  the  air  wavers  with  heat  like  veils  rippling  in 
the  wind,  is  of  course  a  desert  on  which  nothing 
grows  except  pale  tufts  of  dusty  straw.  The  sur- 
face of  the  ground  is  lacquered  by  a  kind  of  crust, 
grey- white  tinged  with  rose;  its  ashen  hue  is 
enhanced  by  the  brown  serrated  hills,  streaked 
with  orange  and  splashed  with  sanguine,  that 
surround  us  with  masses  of  rock  and  crumbling 
stone,  deeply  graven  with  wavy  lines.  Far  away 
to  the  left,  where  the  two  ranges  close  in  around 
the  valley,  a  mirage  has  formed;  while  between  the 
sinking  hills,  a  mountain  seems  to  float — a  tawny 
island  on  a  blue-grey  sea  of  mist.  Hard  at  hand, 
the  ruined  walls  of  an  abandoned  village  are  rosy 
in  the  sun-flood.  Turning  sharply  to  the  right 
down  another  gorge,  then  ascending  a  hill-shoulder, 
Mahyar — our   halting   place — comes   into   sight. 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  303 

The  sun  is  now  flaming;  far  ahead  the  outlines  of 
our  caravan  are  distorted  by  waves  of  heat  into 
what  appear  elongated  visions  rather  than  men 
and  beasts.  When  we  reach  the  high  walls  of  the 
ochre  town,  Husayn  the  inefficient  is  waiting  with 
a  smile  to  tell  me  he  has  found  a  lodging.  We 
enter  by  a  gate  in  a  swelling  tower,  so  narrow  the 
mules  strike  their  burdens  against  the  sides,  and 
have  to  be  pushed  through;  then  turn  and  twist 
between  the  mud- walls  of  a  half -ruined  village. 
We  stop  before  a  kind  of  vault,  soot-black  and 
unspeakably  foul,  which  Husayn  assures  me  is  the 
best  room  to  be  had.  I  insist  that  he  can  find 
better,  and  that,  if  not,  I  will  sleep  on  the  groimd 
outside  the  walls;  so  Husayn  reluctantly  searches 
the  hamlet,  and  soon  returns  in  triumph.  Fol- 
lowed by  muleteers  and  mules,  bumping  by  most 
perishable  possessions  against  every  possible 
obstacle,  we  wind  through  the  narrow  streets,  until 
we  reach  a  filthy  enclosure  filled  with  slatterns 
and  their  half-naked  brats.  The  rooms  are  almost 
as  loathsome  as  the  others;  I  am  on  the  point  of 
taking  them  in  despair,  when  a  big  fellow  in  the 
wide  blue  trousers  worn  in  these  parts,  begins  to 
make  such  a  disturbance  I  think  he  must  object 
to  my  lodging  here.  My  intelligent  interpreter 
volunteers  no  information,  but  repeated  questions 
finally  extract  the  news  that  the  man  is  telling  me 
he  knows  a  clean  house.  For  the  third  time  we 
wander  through  the  lanes  of  Mahyar,  and  at  last 
discover  what  seems  a  palace,  particularly  after 


304     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

it  has  been  swept.  My  room,  like  all  buildings 
in  this  land  without  beams,  is  roofed  by  an  almost 
Gothic  vault  with  penetrations.  The  walls  are 
full  of  those  rectangular  recesses  that,  in  the 
Orient,  replace  furniture  and  cupboards;  over  the 
door  there  is  tracery  to  let  in  light.  Everything 
is  whitewashed,  with  indigo  lines  around  all  the 
architectural  forms.  Over  the  point  of  each  arch 
a  conventional  design,  and  in  every  niche  a  vase 
of  flowers,  is  painted,  all  in  primitive  colours — 
yellow,  green,  vermilion,  and  ultramarine.  On 
the  spaces  between  the  recesses,  small  mirrors  are 
pasted  in  the  centre  of  painted  designs  with  scarlet 
flowers  of  unknown  species,  at  which  wonderful 
birds  are  gazing  from  below — whether  cocks  or 
nightingales  I  cannot  tell.  The  flamboyant  chim- 
ney-piece is  painted  bright  gamboge.  The  floor 
is  covered  with  rugs,  and  in  the  corners  there  are 
piles  of  bedding  neatly  wrapped  in  cloths.  Blue 
and  white  bowls,  bottles,  and  sherbet  spoons  of 
pierced  wood,  are  ranged  on  the  shelves  formed 
by  the  vaulting  arches,  while  caskets  and  a  coffer 
bound  with  gilded  tin  stand  in  the  recesses.  Alto- 
gether it  is  a  gay  and  surprisingly  clean  little 
place,  quite  habitable  when  once  my  kit  is 
arranged. 

In  the  vaulted  shed  next  my  room,  a  man  is 
carding  wool;  I  hear  uninterruptedly  the  curious 
rhythm  of  his  work — thump,  thump,  thump — 
then  the  twang  of  wire  vibrating.  He  is  seated 
on  the  ground  cross-legged,  grasping  an  implement 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  305 

like  a  primitive  harp  with  only  one  string,  of  which 
the  shaft  is  as  thick  as  a  man's  wrist.  The  left 
hand  holds  the  upper  half  of  this  instrument  over 
a  heap  of  wool,  while  the  right  strikes  the  wire 
with  a  wooden  pestle,  causing  it  to  descend  among 
the  wool,  which  it  catches  and  flings  off  in  small 
bits,  submitted  to  this  process  over  and  over  again 
until  sufficiently  fine.  The  women — who  do  not 
veil  here,  but  wear  gowns  and  head-coverings  of 
calico,  usually  scarlet  with  white  dots — are  seated 
on  the  ground  with  their  children  in  a  circle, 
making  a  meal  of  some  green  plant  looking  like 
dandelion.  One  little  tot  toddles  about  in  a  thor- 
oughly Persian  fashion ;  that  is  to  say,  in  a  flowing 
robe  and  cloak  of  calico  left  wide  open,  so  the 
whole  of  his  brown  and  naked  body  is  visible. 
Donkeys  are  standing  or  rolling  in  the  courtyard ; 
occasionally  a  tinkle  from  one  of  their  bells  makes 
itself  heard  above  the  wool-carder's  cadence. 
Across  the  fiat  roofs,  I  can  see  an  immense  cliff 
overhanging  the  village — a  sheer  wall  of  reddish 
rock  streaked  with  grey.  On  the  top  a  pointed 
stone  is  perched,  looking  from  here  like  a  large 

golden  falcon 

By  candlelight  my  little  room  is  very  pictur- 
esque, with  its  porcelains  and  coppers  reflecting 
the  glow  and  casting  soft  shadows.  My  door 
frames  a  lovely  lunar  landscape — a  mysterious 
sky  of  tender  blue,  low  cupolas  just  catching  the 
moon-rays,  walls  that  are  only  flat  black  shadows, 
and  ground  of  pearl-grey  chequered  with  shade. 


306     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GTJLP 

A  diminutive  donkey  has  just  strolled  up,  and  is 
standing  motionless  with  his  head  inside  the  door, 
fixedly  watching  me.  The  only  sounds  are  the 
pawing  of  donkeys'  hoofs,  the  tinkle  of  a  bell, 
the  murmur  of  women's  voices  at  intervals,  or 
occasionally  the  cries  of  children  and  the  wail  of 
an  infant.  From  time  to  time,  a  man  or  a  woman 
walks  into  my  room  in  silence,  ostensibly  to  collect 
some  of  the  belongings  left  behind  when  I  dis- 
possessed them,  but  really  in  order  to  inspect  me 
— for  I  am  always  the  object  of  much  curiosity. 
However  they  are  quiet  and  polite,  so  I  do  not 
rebel  until  the  head  of  the  family  stands  in  front 
of  me  for  nearly  five  minutes,  looking  at  me  stead- 
ily. The  donkey's  gaze  I  thought  rather  friendly, 
but  this  is  too  disconcerting  to  be  endured. 


April  8*? 
When  I  rise,  the  courtyard  is  already  filled  with 
women  and  infants — many  of  the  mothers  mere 
children  themselves,  and  the  wool-carder  is  pre- 
paring to  commence  work.  While  the  mules  are 
being  loaded,  always  a  lengthy  process,  I  climb 
onto  the  roof,  where  a  view  of  the  entire  village 
is  to  be  had.  As  in  all  Persian  towns,  there  are 
no  windows  in  the  street-walls;  for  the  Oriental 
cloisters  his  domestic  life  in  a  manner  that  must 
be  seen  to  be  believed,  and  windows  on  a  public 
way  might  offer  glimpses  of  the  interior  to  passers- 
by.    The  streets  are  bordered  by  blank  walls, 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  307 

only  pierced  by  low  doors  or  wide  portals;  which 
gives  the  hamlet  an  air  of  secrecy.  When  my 
caravan  starts,  the  sun  is  just  rising  beside  the 
lofty  cliff  towering  above  us.  The  air  is  fresh 
and  the  sky  limpid.  As  we  pass  another  village, 
where  tree-tops  nod  above  the  roofs,  the  walls 
are  radiant  in  the  young  sunlight.  A  line  of  trees 
appears  to  be  on  the  march  toward  a  distant 
group  of  hovels.  My  companion,  the  telegraph- 
inspector's  animals,  a  string  of  mules  my  chdrwdddr 
is  taking  down  to  Shiraz  with  us,  and  my  own  mules 
are  all  ahead;  so  we  form  a  caravan  of  some  im- 
portance. A  number  of  the  mules  have  large  bells 
that  boom  as  they  walk,  making  a  bass  to  the 
higher  tinkle  of  the  smaller  bells. 

The  scenery  is  much  the  same  as  yesterday, 
only  more  sombre.  Tiny  black  specks  moving 
in  the  distance,  betray  the  presence  of  flocks 
grazing.  Before  long,  the  mountains  close  around 
us  in  an  amphitheatre.  From  slopes  of  sandy 
earth,  rocky  summits  emerge  suddenly;  in  some 
places  they  look  like  gigantic  rocks,  sharp  as 
arrows,  rising  out  of  a  sea  surging  wildly  about 
their  bases;  in  others,  both  flanks  and  peaks  re- 
semble the  waves  of  some  ocean  aeons  ago  im- 
mobilised at  the  height  of  its  fury.  To  the  right 
— whither  our  road  is  now  bending — a  cleft  ap- 
pears in  the  range,  through  which  snowy  mountain- 
tops  are  visible  in  the  far  distance.  At  the  foot 
of  nearer  hills,  a  group  of  the  now  familiar  but 
always    picturesque    pigeon-towers    indicates    a 


3o8      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

village.  Films  of  cloud  have  long  been  gathering, 
until  the  sky  is  all  but  covered.  In  this  funereal 
light  the  chain  of  rocks  ravaged  by  cataclysms 
assumes  a  sinister  aspect,  with  its  eternally  sus- 
pended waves  all  but  barring  our  egress  from  the 
desolate  plain.  Gradually  bending  to  the  right, 
we  come  in  sight  of  trees  and  walls  that  must  be 
the  outskirts  of  our  halting-place,  Qumisha. 
Suddenly  a  turquoise  dome  appears  above  a  gentle 
rise  hiding  the  rest  of  the  building,  so  that  the 
pointed  cupola  seems  to  pierce  the  earth  by  magic 
— like  a  bulb  of  incredible  size  and  colour.  Qa- 
misha  itself  can  now  be  seen  in  a  plain  between 
two  lion-coloured  spurs  towering  above  it,  as 
though  dragons  on  guard. 

As  we  approach,  trees  show  above  the  walls, 
covered  with  foliage,  not  pallid  like  that  of  the 
poplar,  but  profuse  and  deep-hued,  such  as  we 
see  at  springtide  in  our  own  northerly  countries. 
The  building  whose  dome  appeared  a  few  moments 
since  in  so  curious  a  fashion,  proves  to  be  a  mosque, 
where  is  buried  an  imam  zdda,  brother  to  the  Imam 
Rida,  who  was  so  obliging  as  to  distribute  the 
members  of  his  sanctified  family  over  a  wide 
extent  of  territory.  The  turquoise  cupola,  with 
its  band  of  deep  violet-blue,  dominates  an  irre- 
gular mass  of  all  but  colourless  walls,  standing 
out  like  a  jewelled  iris  against  a  rose-streaked 
cliff,  that  beetles  behind  so  close  as  almost  to  touch 
it.  In  front  of  the  mosque  is  a  row  of  small  pollard- 
willows,  with  twigs  just  tipped  with  green,  spread- 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  309 

ing  out  from  the  trunks  like  slender  fingers.  Be- 
yond these  stretches  a  shallow  pool  of  water — if 
anything  as  formless  may  so  be  called — its  surface 
a  lovely  robin's-egg  blue,  ruffled  by  the  slow  pad- 
dling across  of  a  pair  of  wild  ducks  with  rust-brown 
bodies  and  arching  heads  of  snow-white. 

The  road  now  winds  through  a  graveyard, 
which — like  all  I  have  seen  in  Persia — is  no  more 
than  a  piece  of  barren  ground,  where  small  piles 
of  brick  and  stone  are  heaped  in  the  utmost  dis- 
order. Sometimes  a  tiny  slab  bearing  a  short 
inscription,  is  set  in  the  ground  or  placed  on  edge 
like  a  tombstone;  generally  there  is  only  a  rect- 
angle of  dust-coloured  brick  and  a  heap  of  rubble 
to  mark  a  grave.  These  burial  grounds  recall  that 
sinister  phrase,  "the  potter's  field";  and  their 
neglected  disarray  is  almost  more  depressing  than 
the  collection  of  wire-wreaths  and  hideous  monu- 
ments which  make  European  cemeteries  so  horrible. 
The  roadside  is  strewn  with  millstones,  cast  there 
when  and  why — who  knows?  Then  we  begin  to 
enter  the  town  proper,  between  blind  walls  and 
half-fallen  vaults;  for  Qtimisha,  like  so  many  of 
these  cities  and  villages  once  populous,  is  to-day 
half  in  ruins.  These  decaying  streets,  where 
people  still  dwell  among  stretches  of  ruin,  are 
melancholy  and  typical  of  the  Persian,  both  in  his 
decadence  and  his  indifference.  After  twisting 
through  a  labyrinth  of  lanes,  we  reach  the  tel- 
egraph station  with  its  three  clean  rooms  over- 
looking   a   court,     where    a    freshly    blossomed 


3IO     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

fruit-tree  seems  to  reproach  a  larger  but  still 
budless  tree. 

My  chdrwdddr  proposes  "breaking  a  stage'* 
to-morrow,  that  is  to  say  doing  two,  so  wishes  to 
start  at  half -past  three  in  the  morning.  As  my 
companion  is  only  going  a  single  stage  further, 
he  does  not  care  to  leave  so  early.  It  is  necessary 
to  procure  an  escort,  since  the  road  from  here  to 
Abada  is  reputed  dangerous;  a  scribe  is  therefore 
brought  to  write  a  letter  to  the  governor.  He  is 
a  wonderful  old  fellow  with  a  beard  that  is  flaming 
red,  except  for  an  inch  of  white  around  the  face. 
He  seats  himself  on  the  floor  and  writes  with  a 
reed  pen,  holding  the  paper — Persian  fashion — 
on  the  palm  of  his  hand.  I  am  told  that  the  pecu- 
liar custom  of  twisting  the  end  of  each  line  upward 
in  Persian  letters  is  a  sign  of  honour;  and  that  the 
more  exalted  the  recipient,  the  higher  the  end  of 
the  line  must  rise.  There  is,  however,  no  way  of 
ascertaining  whether  this  be  true  or  not;  for  Per- 
sians appear  singularly  ignorant  in  regard  to  their 
own  customs.  Only  this  morning  a  man  insisted 
that  the  abandoned  but  still  numerous  pigeon- 
towers  were  built  to  lead  air  into  subterranean 
chambers  used  in  summer!  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
they  were  built  for  pigeons  on  a  peculiar  plan, 
arranged  to  facilitate  gathering  the  manure  for 
the  fields 

The  governor's  reply  has  just  been  brought, 
saying  that  if  I  leave  while  it  is  still  dark,  his 
suwdrs  will  be  unable  to  see  robbers,  and  cannot 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  31 1 

guarantee  my  safety.  This  is  of  course  a  pretext, 
since  the  last  time  at  which  brigands  would  be 
on  the  watch,  is  just  before  daybreak;  but  I  am 
obliged  to  yield,  and,  after  endless  palaver  and  the 
sending  back  and  forth  of  messengers,  agree  to 
start  at  four-thirty. 


April  g^^ 
Four  o'clock.     The  moon  must  still  be  up,  since 
a  light  hke  liquid  crystal  blanches  every  object 
in  the  court,  while  the  sky  itself  is  suffused  with 

pallid  radiance The  moon  set  while  I 

was  dressing,  for  impenetrable  shadow  holds 
sway  at  present.  Above  the  roofs,  the  now  un- 
rivalled stars  glitter  in  heavens  of  the  deepest  blue. 
Haji  'Abbas  is  squatted  against  the  wall  fast 
asleep,  waiting  for  my  luggage  to  be  packed.  In- 
stead of  loading  at  once  the  packages  that  have 
been  ready  all  night,  he  waits  until  the  last  valise 
is  closed.  When  I  am  prepared  to  start,  only  one 
mule  is  laden,  and  everyone  has  to  be  stirred  up. 
The  tufangchl  are  for  a  wonder  waiting  for  me, 
thanks  to  the  telegraph  ghuldm  (servant)  whom  I 
sent  to  fetch  them. 

When  we  leave,  it  is  after  five  o'clock  and  broad 
day,  though  the  sun  has  not  yet  risen.  We  wind 
through  crumbling  ruins,  called  the  streets  of 
Qumisha,  and  slowly  reach  the  open.  The  great 
cliff  of  violet-brown  looms  over  us,  outlined  against 
a  luminous  sky,  greenish  white  near  the  horizon. 


312     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

Just  above  this  tremendous  wall,  two  or  three 
shred-like  clouds  sail  past,  white  on  the  upper 
edges  but  smoke-coloured  below,  like  those  in  the 
skies  Claude  loved  to  paint.  Indeed  the  whole 
scene,  with  its  combination  of  lucency  and  masses 
of  unlighted  brown,  recalls  pictures  in  which  the 
Lorrain  contrasts  the  light  of  a  setting  sun  with 
expanses  of  brown  or  grey  shade.  Everything 
is  still  imillumined  here  where  we  are  moving 
imder  the  far-flung  shadow  of  the  hill-cliffs;  but 
across  the  plain,  where  sun-rays  have  already 
struck,  the  hills  are  flushing  rose,  as  they  seem- 
ingly spring  into  life.  However  often  seen,  noth- 
ing is  lovelier  and  more  mysterious  than  the 
phenomena  which  attend  the  appearance  of  a  new 
day.  That  the  withdrawal  of  the  sun  makes  no 
change  in  the  essence  of  things,  is  difficult  to  be- 
lieve; since  when  first  we  see  them  again,  in  the 
lustreless  light  before  sun-beams  have  touched 
them,  they  appear  lifeless  or  at  best  asleep.  The 
next  moment,  when  the  first  shafts  of  sun  have 
fallen  on  them,  they  seem  to  leap  into  a  form  of 
real  life,  like  disenchanted  sleepers  in  old  tales. 
A  moment  ago  every  object  was  as  plainly  visible 
as  at  present;  yet  everything  was  dull  and  cold. 
Bathed  in  sun,  every  object  now  seems  living, 
while  the  colours  that  a  moment  since  were  flat, 
quiver  and  glow.  This  lovely  effect  is  very 
fleeting,  and  has  already  begun  to  subside,  when 
the  sun  swings  into  sight  above  the  hill-top. 

The  plateau — bounded  on  three  sides  by  lines 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  313 

of  hills,  unbroken  except  where  Qumisha  lies  in  a 
cleft — is  less  barren  than  heretofore,  being  streaked 
with  pale  green  and  dotted  with  villages.  Over 
their  walls  and  scattered  trees,  the  pigeon-towers 
stand  out;  many  of  them  quite  large  buildings 
with  crenellations  and  a  small  turret  in  the  centre 
of  the  crowning  platform — rather  like  models  of 
the  Castello  S.  Angelo.  Clouds  gather  until  the 
entire  sky  is  obscured;  even  when  the  sun  shines 
through  a  rift,  the  light  is  ghostly.  A  sharp  wind 
is  blowing  and  the  cold  unpleasant,  a  reminder  of 
the  height  at  which  the  Iranian  plateaus  lie. 
The  country  has  now  grown  absolutely  desolate, 
with  a  pall  of  uniform  grey  stretching  over  it, 
whilst  wild  gusts  of  wind  buffet  man  and  beast 
in  a  manner  very  trying  to  nerves.  On  either 
hand  unlovely  hills  hem  in  the  narrow  upland  as 
far  as  sight  can  reach.  Overhead  a  sky  of  lead; 
in  front  a  drab  and  desert  plain;  dreariness  wher- 
ever the  wearied  eye  may  turn;  not  a  living  thing 
in  sight;  no  change  to  divert  the  mind,  nothing 
but— 

"Miles,  and  miles,  and  miles  of  desolation! 
Leagues  on  leagues  on  leagues  without  a  change." 

Anything  so  depressing  I  have  never  experienced. 
This  featureless  scene  lacks  even  the  grandeur  of 
that  "  Land  of  Fear  and  Thirst" — the  Sahara, — or 
the  horror  of  more  blasted  landscapes.  In  its 
oppression,  the  mind  turns  on  itself  in  a  steadily 


314     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

recurrent  chain  of  painful  thoughts,  as  a  mill- 
stone might  revolve  without  grist  to  grind. 

Having  managed  to  get  a  little  ahead  of  my 
caravan,  I  stop  to  drink  a  hurried  cup  of  tea  and 
bolt  a  hard-boiled  egg;  then  hasten  on  again  at  a 
mule's  pace.  Crawling  along  through  scenery 
that  knows  no  change,  my  thoughts  move  with 
the  metallic  click  of  machinery  steadily  returning 
to  the  same  point.  A  green  shrub,  or  a  small  and 
all  but  colourless  flower  growing  under  dried 
grass,  is  an  event;  any  diversion,  a  relief.  When 
I  can  bear  sitting  motionless  on  an  uncomfortable 
saddle  no  longer,  I  walk  until  my  legs  ache.  Ever 
the  same  eternal  dreariness  before  my  eyes;  time 
weighs  on  me  like  a  mountain  of  lead;  minutes 
seem  hours,  and  hours  days. 

Ammabad  is  now  visible,  but  far  off — at  least 
an  hour's  crawl.  A  few  black  specks  develop 
into  three  pedestrians  and  a  man  riding  on  a  don- 
key that  would  not  reach  his  waist.  They  stop 
to  talk  with  my  escort ;  then  Husayn  comes  up  and 
tells  me  they  have  said  that  robbers  were  seen 
this  morning  on  the  road  between  Aminabad  and 
the  tower  a  few  miles  further  on,  where  the  first 
post  of  gendarmes  is  stationed ;  that  there  are  only 
three  tujangchl  at  Aminabad,  so  it  would  be  impru- 
dent for  me  to  attempt  to  reach  Yazdikhast  this 
evening;  and  that  I  ought,  therefore,  to  spend  the 
night  at  the  village,  and  send  for  gendarmes  to 
escort  me  in  the  morning.  This  story  strikes  me 
as  nonsense;  but,  Aminabad  being  a  noted  haunt 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  3 1 5 

of  brigands,  situated  close  to  the  boundary  of  the 
province  of  Fars,  where  the  Consul  at  Shiraz  re- 
ported trouble, — it  is  none  the  less  disquieting. 
After  holding  a  council  of  war  with  Said,  I  decide 
that  it  is  best  to  push  on;  since  the  gendarmes 
would  never  come  to  Aminabad,  as  they  would 
then  be  outside  their  province,  and  staying  the 
night  in  the  village  would  only  give  the  villagers 
time  to  notify  the  robbers — if  there  are  any — of 
my  presence. 

At  Aminabad  I  tell  Haji  'Abbas  that  we  shall 
proceed;  he  is  in  a  blue  funk  lest  his  mules  be 
stolen;  no  amount  of  explaining  that  I  am  no 
more  anxious  to  be  robbed  than  he  is  to  lose  his 
animals,  and  am  going  to  push  on  for  his  sake  as 
much  as  my  own,  is  of  any  use;  I  have,  therefore, 
to  resort  to  Persian  methods,  and  shake  him 
soundly  until  he  realises  that  I  am  master.  Then 
the  tufangchl  crowd  around,  trying  to  dissuade  me; 
the  translation  of  my  sarcastic  enquiries,  whether 
they  are  afraid  of  the  brigands  or  not,  finally  puts 
some  life  into  the  oldest  of  the  seven,  and  the 
only  one  who  shows  a  semblance  of  manhood. 
Taking  out  the  Governor  of  Qumisha's  order,  I 
insist  that  the  four  men  who  have  come  the  last 
stage,  shall  accompany  me  as  well  as  the  three  new 
ones;  to  this  they  finally  consent,  after  much 
excitement  and  a  request  for  extra  tips.  Hajl 
'Abbas  now  says  we  must  start  on  the  instant,  if 
we  are  to  proceed ;  but  I  maintain  that  I  will  have 
ten  minutes  in  which  to  swallow  a  bit  of  food; 


3i6     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

after  gulping  it  as  fast  as  possible,  we  leave  about 
three  o'clock. 

The  ground  now  rises  and  falls  in  gentle  un- 
dulations, concealing  the  rest  of  the  plain.  The 
seven  road-guards  keep  running  to  the  top  of  a 
crest,  scanning  the  distance — one  of  them  with  a 
pocket  telescope, — then  trotting  off  to  the  next 
eminence ;  while  Said  and  I  watch  every  direction, 
our  revolvers  ready  for  use.  The  old  man  is 
marching  down  the  road  by  himself,  far  ahead  of 
the  caravan,  carrying  his  gun  on  his  shoulder  with 
quite  a  martial  swing.  Journeying  in  this  fashion 
is  a  welcome  change,  since  it  is  rather  exciting; 
but  I  cannot  free  my  mind  from  a  suspicion  that 
the  whole  alarm  has  been  contrived  by  my  escort 
in  order  to  obtain  large  gratuities.  I  may  be 
unfair  to  them,  but  a  few  weeks  in  countries 
such  as  this  annihilate  all  belief  in  disinterested 
motives.  ^ 

Before  long  we  reach  the  gendarmerie  tower, 
where  I  dismiss  the  tufangchl  with  the  tips  pro- 
mised— though  probably  not  deserved.  For  once 
they  appear  pleased,  and  have  enough  politeness 
to  thank  me,  the  old  man  with  especially  good 
grace.  The  gendarmes  come  out,  salute,  and — 
with  the  exception  of  two  left  on  guard — start  to 
accompany  my  caravan.     They  are  not  like  the 

*  Within  a  fortnight,  however,  a  man  claiming  to  be  an  Ameri- 
can subject,  was  robbed,  on  this  part  of  the  road,  of  merchandise, 
whose  value  he  estimated — in  his  telegram  to  the  authorities — at 
eight  thousand  tumdns. 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  317 

smartly  uniformed  fellows  in  the  neighbourhood 
of  Tihran,  differing  from  the  road-guards  only  in 
their  more  honest  faces,  and  the  brass  badges 
with  the  Lion  and  the  Rising  Sun  fastened  in 
front  of  their  high  bonnets.  Like  all  the  men 
since  Isfahan,  they  are  taller  and  better  built 
than  the  inhabitants  of  North  Persia.  Several 
are  wearing  the  big  trousers  so  distinctive  of  this 
part  of  the  country.  Of  dark  blue  linen,  they  are 
made  so  wide  as  to  flop  about  the  ankles  like 
divided  skirts.  Their  high  bonnets  and  long 
robes — almost  reaching  the  knees  and  held  in 
place  by  a  twisted  girdle — give  the  men,  however 
shabby,  an  almost  Assyrian  silhouette.  As  they 
walk,  the  outer  garment  blows  back,  discovering 
a  cotton  under-robe  flowered  with  delightfully 
archaic  patterns. 

The  road  now  runs  down  the  plain  in  a  straight 
line,  flanked  by  telegraph-poles.  As  the  sun 
descends,  everything  turns  dark  brown;  overhead 
the  shroud  of  grey  has  broken  into  separate 
masses,  between  which  sunbeams  occasionally 
slip.  Ahead  of  me,  two  of  the  gendarmes  prostrate 
themselves  with  their  foreheads  on  the  earth, 
while  they  recite  the  evening  prayer ;  then  a  mule- 
teer rushes  to  the  roadside,  rubs  head  and  hands 
with  earth — there  being  no  water  for  the  cere- 
monial ablutions, — and  kneels  in  the  direction  of 
Mecca,  which  in  this  case  chances  to  be  that  of 
the  sinking  sun.  In  the  distance  a  very  poor  old 
man  and  two  women,  journeying  alone  and  on 


3i8      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

foot  through  this  deserted  country,  are  seated  at 
rest  beside  the  road;  when  we  pass,  the  man  begs 
me  to  have  his  little  bundle  carried  on  one  of  my 
mules,  then  hobbles  after  us  as  best  he  can. 

After  rounding  a  monticule,  a  yellow  line  in  the 
far  distance  indicates  the  situation  of  Yazdikhast, 
the  fantastic  city  completely  surrounded  by 
chasms.  Having  been  warned  of  its  deceptive  as- 
pect when  seen  from  afar,  it  is  no  surprise  to  have  it 
appear  level  with  the  plain,  and  not  towering  above 
it.  Suddenly  a  shaft  of  sun-light  leaps  through 
the  river  clouds,  touches  a  clay-built  dome,  turning 
it  brilliant  ochre,  then  fades  away.  Before  long 
the  sun  sets,  leaving  the  hills  and  plain  a  deep 
golden  brown.  To  the  right  an  empurpled  cloud 
overhangs  the  jagged  hill-tops,  its  edges  glowing 
with  dull  crimson;  to  the  left  a  moon,  nearly  full 
and  already  high,  is  clearly  visible  in  a  sky  of 
dull  violet  barred  with  grey  films  of  cloud.  From 
every  direction,  flocks  of  sheep  and  goats  are 
moving  through  the  brown  light  toward  the  city 
gates,  in  lines  of  brown  and  black  undulating 
across  the  brown  plain  like  immense  caterpillars. 

As  we  draw  nearer,  the  vague  outlines  of  the 
city  gradually  take  shape.  It  is  now  close  at  hand, 
yet  there  is  no  sign  of  cliff  or  chasm.  We  are 
traversing  a  graveyard,  that  is — by  way  of  excep- 
tion— quite  neat.  As  we  pass,  two  gendarmes 
take  a  handful  of  pebbles  from  a  depression  in  one 
of  the  tombstones,  and  hold  them  while  saying  a 
prayer  for  the  deceased.     The  dried-clay  buildings 


A  Typical  Persian:  My  Landlord  at  Mahyar 


A  City  of  the  Apocalypse:  Yazdikhast 


Early  Morning  at  Yazdikhast  from  my  Lodgings 


Natives  of  Yazdikhast  with  the  Hlad  Tufangchi  in  the  Centre 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  319 

of  Yazdikhast  are  at  present  only  a  few  hundred 
yards  distant,  yet  still  appear  to  be  built  on  the 
plain  we  are  crossing.  Suddenly  the  road  swings 
nearer,  disclosing  the  real  situation  of  the  town, 
separated  from  us  by  a  wide  and  very  deep  ravine. 
In  times  unknown,  a  great  river  must  have  worn 
a  vast  canyon,  several  hundred  feet  deep  and  over 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  wide,  through  the  friable 
ground,  leaving  an  island  of  more  resistant  earth 
near  one  of  the  banks.  The  top  of  this  curious 
formation  is  therefore  on  a  level  with  the  sur- 
rounding country, — hence  that  appearance  of  the 
town,  which  from  a  distance  is  so  surprising  to 
travellers  familiar  with  photographs  of  Yazdikhast 
perched  high  in  the  air.  Near  at  hand  the  preci- 
pices are  visible,  rising  from  the  river-bed  far 
below — every  inch  of  the  space  they  bound, 
covered  with  houses,  the  inextricable  confusion 
of  whose  walls,  windows,  and  balconies,  overhangs 
the  cliffs  of  clay.  The  town  being  built  of  the 
same  earth  as  its  base,  has  the  same  colour;  so 
to  distinguish  the  line  where  the  work  of  nature 
ends  and  that  of  man  begins,  is  almost  impossible. 
The  fantastic  pile  of  city  and  cliff  is  thrown  into 
sharp  relief,  and  seems  to  shine  in  the  swiftly 
waning  light,  all  its  surfaces  a  peculiar  shade  of 
luminous  grey,  as  though  the  dust-colotured  walls 
had  been  covered  with  a  transparent  glaze  of  very 
pale  acidulous  green.  The  broad  floor  of  the 
chasm  is  sown  with  grass,  now  a  dull  expanse  of 
metallic  green  with  mauve  reflections.     Turning 


320     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

sharply  to  the  left,  we  reach  the  piece  of  open 
ground  between  the  new  and  the  old  town;  the 
latter  being  only  accessible  by  a  narrow  bridge 
across  the  here  much  narrowed  gorge.  No  railings 
protect  the  flimsy  wooden  structure,  over  which 
a  herd  of  goats  is  hurrying  to  push  its  way 
through  the  narrow  gate.  It  is  after  seven  o'clock 
when  I  dismount;  we  have  been  fourteen  hours 
on  the  road,  practically  without  a  halt — a  terrible 
stage  for  men  and  a  worse  for  mules. 

After  several  unsuccessful  attempts  to  find  a 
lodging,  I  am  led  to  the  further  end  of  the  new 
town,  through  streets  crowded  with  flocks,  jost- 
ling and  undulating  like  the  waves  of  an  umber 
sea — to  a  house  which  the  village  chief  reserves 
for  his  guests.  Crossing  an  enclosure  strewn  with 
stones,  I  find  myself  in  a  porch  almost  on  the  edge 
of  the  cliff.  The  scene  that  greets  me  is  indeed 
fantastic.  Directly  opposite,  the  moon's  stately 
orb  rides  the  sky,  although  daylight  has  not  yet 
disappeared.  In  front  of  me  the  stony  earth  for 
a  few  hundred  yards  falls  steeply  away,  then  stops 
abruptly.  Far  below,  the  canyon-floor  spreads 
out,  with  its  narrow  stream  rushing  through  a 
chequer  of  untilled  earth  and  sharply  contrasted 
iields  of  green.  Beyond  that,  towers  the  side  of 
the  gorge — a  sheer  wall  of  black  shadow,  above 
which  a  dull  blue  line  of  pointed  hills  is  visible. 
Despite  still  lingering  day,  the  moonlight  dazzles. 

The  lodgings  are  of  the  sorriest;  only  one  room 
is  habitable,  and  that  has  mud- walls  and  a  ceiling 


T£C  -  ART  STUDIOS,  Inc. 

ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  321 

of  which  one  half  has  already  fallen,  while  the 
other  threatens  to  crush  anyone  foolhardy  enough 
to  pass  the  night  here.  Since  travellers  in  Persia 
resemble  beggars,  inasmuch  as  they  have  no 
choice,  make  the  best  of  it,  I  must.  No  meat  and 
almost  no  provisions  of  any  sort  are  to  be  had; 
this,  combined  w4th  the  filthy  resting-place  at  the 
end  of  so  harassing  a  day,  proves  almost  too  much 
even  for  Said's  good  humour.  My  dinner  and 
the  manner  of  serving  it,  are  better  left  without 
description;  but  the  wonderful  sight  before  me 
drives  away  all  thoughts  of  discomfort. 

It  is  now  full  night;  in  the  abyss  below  I  can 
only  distinguish  a  confused  diaper  of  lighter  and 
darker  blacks,  beyond  which  a  wall  of  intense 
shadow  rises  to  where  a  chain  of  mountains  less 
vigorously  black  is  outlined — apparently  on  the 
same  plane — against  a  sky  of  darkest  ultramarine. 
Rising  slowly  toward  the  zenith,  the  enrondured 
moon  now  reigns  in  undisputed  radiance,  cast- 
ing sheet  after  sheet  of  cold  and  glittering  light 
down  in  the  void  which  yawns  below  my  feet. 


April  10*^ 
A  flood  of  sun.  The  whole  canyon,  with  its 
fresh  fields  and  silvery  streams,  lies  in  the  soft 
glow  of  earliest  day;  and  the  cliffs  now  show  the 
curved  surface  that  centuries  of  flowing  water 
have  hollowed,  until  the  upper  edge  to-day  over- 
hangs the  base.     Walking  to  the  verge,  over  which 


322      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

my  lodgings  all  but  slide,  I  can  see  the  walls  of 
the  old  city  towering  above  the  gorge,  while,  nearer 
by,  the  houses  of  the  new  town  descend  to  the 
bottom  on  gentler  slopes,  in  rows  of  clay-built 
roofs  one  below  the  other.  When  I  go  out  to 
take  photographs,  a  curious  but  politely  silent 
crowd  dogs  my  steps.  Crossing  the  bridge  to  the 
old  city,  the  narrow  span  without  any  protection 
on  either  side,  makes  me  giddy  since  I  can  see  the 
depths  below.  Through  the  archway,  there  are 
glimpses  of  a  narrow  street  between  high  walls, 
soon  turning  into  a  tunnel  where  the  houses  are 
built  across  it;  but  there  is  no  time  to  go  further. 
Clambering  along  the  pebbly  slopes  opposite  the 
city  in  the  direction  from  which  we  came  yester- 
day, I  finally  obtain  a  new  view  as  curious  as  a 
man  could  wish. 

Yazdikhast  rides  in  this  vast  chasm  quite  close 
to  one  of  the  sides,  like  an  unimaginable  galley 
stranded  at  the  recession  of  some  long-forgotten 
flood.  At  the  prow  this  ship  of  rock  is  so  narrow 
as  to  seem  fragile;  then  it  sweeps  backwards  with 
long  cliffs  now  draped  in  shadow,  above  which  is 
piled  the  confusion  of  the  houses.  The  road  that 
my  caravan  is  to  follow,  passes  around  this  end  of 
the  town,  then  winds  up  the  opposite  precipice. 
The  river  is  spanned  by  a  bridge,  curving  across 
it  with  a  rose-grey  series  of  brick  arches.  At  the 
further  end  stands  a  neglected  caravanserai,  over 
whose  gates  somebody  has  scrawled  "Cadbury's 
Pure  Cocoa"  in  white  letters,  that  would  make 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  323 

Loti  snarl  with  rage.  As  we  climb  upward,  the 
chasm  on  the  further  side  of  Yazdikhast  is  hidden, 
and  the  town  seems  built  on  the  edge  of  the  plain, 
its  long  line  of  roofs  and  houses  overhanging  the 
base  of  the  cliff  in  a  giddy  fashion. 

When  we  reach  the  table-land,  this  city  of  the 
Apocalypse  soon  disappears,  as  the  eternal  plains 
stretch  before  us  between  monotonous  chains  of 
umber  hills.  This  never-ending  upland  of  dusty 
grey  tinged  with  green  is  indeed — 

"  A  land  that  is  lonelier  than  niin 

Waste  endless  and  boundless  and  flowerless  ... 
Where  earth  lies  exhausted." 

Creeping  drearily  across  it  day  after  day,  seems 
a  penitential  rite  full  of  distress  and  dolour.  At 
first  ample  clouds  were  herding  on  the  hill-crest; 
then  a  chill  wind  began  to  drive  them  across  the 
sky,  until  now  it  is  hidden  behind  serried  rows 
of  sombre  cumuli.  There  is  not  a  living  thing  in 
sight  except  my  caravan  and  the  escort — seven 
men  on  foot  and  three  on  horseback.  Not  a 
blighted  tree,  not  even  a  shrub  on  which  to  rest 
the  eye.  Suddenly  two  crows  and  then  a  swallow 
wing  past;  when  lost  to  sight  their  absence  grows 
painful.  The  very  hills  lour,  drawing  together 
until  they  seem  to  bar  the  valley  ahead  of  us. 
Above  them,  a  horrid  range  of  dull  black  mount- 
ains, streaked  with  white  where  the  snow  lies  in 
wrinkles,  stretches  out  its  monstrous  length  like 


324     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

a  slimy  python.    As  the  hills  close  in,   I  feel 
entrapped : — 

"Grey    plain   all    round; 
Nothing  but  plain  to  the  horizon's  bound. 
I  might  go  on;  nought  else  remained  to  do. 

So,  on  I  went.    I  think  I  never  saw 
Such  starved  ignoble  nature " 


If  only  I  had  a  real  horse,  I  could  gallop  ahead 
and  change  my  thoughts  by  rapid  motion:  but 
the  poor  jade  I  am  riding,  cannot  even  keep  up 
with  the  mules,  unless  my  heels  beat  an  unceasing 
tattoo  on  his  lank  sides,  or  a  muleteer  walks  behind, 
chirruping  and  slapping  the  wretched  animal  in  a 
way  that  is  unendurable.  To  break  the  monotony 
I  have  told  Husayn  to  take  his  guitar,  which  he  is 
now  playing — its  strumming  all  but  drowned  by 
the  chime  of  mule-bells.  He  has  just  broken  into 
the  matchiche  with  Persian  amplifications;  the 
incongruity  of  hearing  this  vulgar  tune  in  so  re- 
mote a  desert,  is  amusing.  Then  he  strikes  into 
an  old  Persian  air,  whose  silver  tinkle  transforms 
my  ennui  into  a  gentle  melancholy. 

Shiilgistan,  the  end  of  our  stage,  is  now  within 
sight.  Crowds  are  streaming  out  of  the  gates, 
and  advancing  toward  us.  It  seems  they  expect 
the  arrival  of  a  fellow  townsman,  returning  in 
sanctity  from  a  pilgrimage  to  Mecca.  On  dis- 
covering that  it  is  not  he,  they  turn  back  in  dis- 
appointment, the  green,  mauve,  and  pomegranate 
robes  of  the  men  among  the  women'sblackmantles, 


Shulgistan  at  Sunrise 


My  Caravan  Leaving  Shulgistan 


The  Way  Haji  Abbus,  my  Charwadar,  Preferred  to  Ride 


An  Abandoned  Garden:  The  Pavilion  at  Sarmak 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  325 

making  a  picture  against  the  ochre  walls.  When 
I  alight,  they  crowd  about  me  in  striking  groups. 
Outside  the  town,  the  small  turquoise  dome  of  a 
rude  mosque  rests  on  the  dried-clay  walls,  like  a 
jewelled  and  inverted  bowl.  Through  a  narrow 
gate,  and  between  the  blind  walls  of  narrow  streets, 
where  women  and  children  squat  in  the  filth  of 
comers,  I  am  led  to  the  house  of  the  village  chief, 
where  two — for  Persia — possible  rooms  are  to  be 
had.  An  old  woman  is  set  to  sweep  them,  raising 
clouds  of  dust  with  the  small  besom  that  is  the 
only  broom  known  in  this  country.  When  my  kit 
is  being  arranged,  women  sit  on  the  roofs  in 
huddled  rows  like  penguins,  while  men  and  boys 
lean  against  the  courtyard  walls — all  watching  every 
movement  I  make.  To  anyone  afraid  of  publicity, 
I  recommend  as  training  a  short  trip  in  Persia. 

Neither  eggs  nor  milk — and  of  course  no  meat — 
are  to  be  had,  robbers  having  looted  the  town 
a  short  time  ago.  The  inhabitants — I  am  told — 
intend  to  abandon  the  place,  as  the  inroads  of  brig- 
ands are  frequent,  and  their  taxes  remain  high  even 
when  they  have  been  despoiled.  While  I  make 
what  takes  the  place  of  a  meal,  a  half-starved 
greyhound,  with  a  tattered  blanket  tied  round  him, 
slinks  in  and  watches  me  reproachfully  until  fed. 


April  11*^ 
During  the  night,  I  was  roused  several  times 
by  the  noisy  attempts  of  a  particularly  lively  cat 


326     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

to  get  through  the  cracks  in  my  ill-fastened  door. 
No  amount  of  shooing  and  shouting  could  drive 
it  permanently  away;  it  kept  crawling  between 
the  rotten  boards,  and  then  bounding  around  the 
room  in  a  manner  that  filled  me  with  sympathy 
for  the  old  monks,  whose  cells  often  received 
nocturnal  visits  from  acrobatic  devils.  At  last 
I  had  to  rise  and  barricade  the  door  with  a  kit- 
bag.  I  have  grown  quite  accustomed  to  having 
people  wander  into  my  room  at  all  times,  to 
the  incursions  of  dogs,  hens,  and  ordinary  cats, 
even  to  the  presence  of  a  donkey's  head 
swaying  its  long  ears  in  the  doorway;  but  a 
fiend  in  the  form  of  a  cat  leaping  loudly  around 
the  room  in  the  dead  of  night,  is  still  somewhat 
disconcerting. 

When  dressed,  I  take  my  elusive  way  on  foot 
through  the  tangle  of  lanes,  and  out  of  the  gate 
in  the  walls  with  which  every  Persian  village  is 
fortified;  leaving  the  caravan  to  follow  as  soon  as 
ready.  A  pool  of  water  has  formed  in  front  of 
the  little  mosque — or  is  it  a  tomb?  In  the  deli- 
cate light  of  early  day,  the  varied  blues  of  the 
rough  tiles  covering  the  cup-like  dome,  glitter 
above  me  and  shine  reflected  in  the  water  at  my 
feet.  Donkeys  amble  past  in  twos  and  threes, 
followed  by  men  and  boys  on  their  way  to  labour ; 
then  a  comical  flock  of  tiny  brown  kids  trots  by 
in  charge  of  a  woman  wrapped  in  her  veil.  The 
town  is  quite  picturesque,  with  its  crenellated 
walls,  its  ruined  pavilion  over  the  gates,  and  its 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  327 

groups  of  small  flat  domes  on  every  side — all  of 
them  built  of  sun-dried  earth. 

Loti  always  refers  to  these  walls  of  earth — the 
only  building  material  used  in  Persia  except  in 
great  monuments — as  being  " gris-rose";  to  my 
eye  their  colour  is  a  shade  of  brown.  It  is  too 
warm  to  call  even  "rose-grey,"  since  grey  is  al- 
ways cold.  When  wet  or  in  shadow,  the  walls 
are  pale  burnt-siena  tinged  with  rose-madder; 
in  sunlight  they  are  like  the  neck-feathers  of  a 
turtle-dove.  Only  when  seen  in  the  far  distance 
could  they  possibly  be  called  grey;  even  then,  they 
are  to  me  dust-coloured — that  is  to  say,  the  faintest 
possible  shade  of  yellow.  At  all  times  the  rosy 
tinge  is  prominent  and  very  charming. 

While  I  am  sitting  on  a  bank,  trying  to  note  the 
exact  colour  of  Persian  walls,  my  caravan  files 
through  the  gates.  To-day  the  sky  is  without  a 
cloud,  pure  cobalt  fading  to  blue-grey  where  it 
touches  the  mountains.  The  same  plain  of  end- 
less brown,  the  same  hills  of  sepia.  The  dun  vista 
is  closed  by  mountains  slanting  across  the  plain; 
even  they  are  unlovely,  in  form  commonplace, 
in  colour  a  dark  dirty  grey,  streaked  with  livid 
white  where  snow  hes  in  the  folds.  Everywhere 
dreariness  to  the  eye,  and  weariness  to  the  spirit. 
Haji  'Abbas,  my  chdrwdddr,  owns  a  diminutive 
donkey,  which  he  rides  most  of  the  time  with  his 
legs  tucked  under  him,  and  a  small  oil  lamp  stuck 
in  front  of  the  saddle.  A  ghuldm  returning  to  the 
bank  at  Shiraz,  has  joined  the  caravan;  he  also 


328      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

bestrides  a  white  donkey  so  small  his  rider's  feet 
almost  touch  the  ground.  One  of  the  muleteers 
has  withered  arms,  hanging  from  his  shoulders 
like  the  flappers  of  a  turtle.  The  caravan  of 
merchandise  that  Haji  'Abbas  is  convoying  to 
Shiraz,  generally  takes  the  road  with  mine;  which 
is  pleasant,  since  to  watch  the  large  number  of 
animals  is  diverting  and  the  tinkling  of  the  bells, 
dominated  by  the  lead-horse's  booming  note,  the 
only  cheerful  sound  all  day  long. 

In  my  pocket  there  is  a  copy  of  Loti's  Vers 
Ispahan,  which  I  have  not  re-read  entirely  since 
it  first  appeared.  As  we  jog  along,  I  take  it  out 
from  time  to  time,  and  read  a  page  or  two,  shading 
the  leaf  with  my  note-book.  I  am  divided  be- 
tween anger  and  admiration.  How  romantic  he 
makes  this  detestable  country  seem!  It  is  true 
that  he  warns  travellers  they  must  sleep :  "  entasses 
dans  une  niche  de  terre  battue,  parmi  les  mouches 
et  la  vermine";  and  says  frankly  that  "qui  veut 
venir  avec  moi  voir  la  saison  des  roses  a  Ispahan, 
.  .  .  se  resigne  a  beaucoup  de  jours  passes  dans 
les  solitudes,  dans  la  monotonie  et  les  mirages." 
But  the  very  soimd  of  his  enchanted  words  makes 
the  prospect  so  delightful,  no  one  can  possibly 
conceive  the  reality.  Sorcery  of  precisely  this 
nature,  no  other  writer  possesses;  he  is  able  to 
travel  through  the  dreariest  and  most  disappoint- 
ing of  all  celebrated  countries,  and  make  it  seem 
a  land  of  wonders.  His  inimitable  powers  of 
expression  lend  colour  to  the  commonest  objects, 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  329 

whilst  the  ear  is  ravished  by  the  cadence  of  his 
jewelled  phrases.  To  read  such  works  is  a  delight ; 
but  when  the  truth  stares  one  in  the  face,  revul- 
sion is  intense.  Loti's  book  makes  hodiernal 
Persia  all  the  sadder,  and  travel  here  the  drearier ; 
for — even  when  allowance  has  been  made  for  the 
part  which  imagination  plays  in  his  writing — it 
shows  how  much  has  been  lost  in  the  comparatively 
short  time  elapsed  since  he  made  his  journey. 
Then  the  cities,  although  ruinous,  retained  some 
traces  of  splendour;  and  of  the  ancient  customs 
and  costumes,  there  were  still  survivals.  The  last 
vestiges  have  now  vanished  from  a  land  that  has 
lost  its  distinction  without  gaining  true  civilisa- 
tion. Persia  is  to-day  only  a  grinning  skeleton 
decked  in  the  tatters  of  its  glory  and  galvanised 
into  a  semblance  of  life.  Travelling  here  is  like 
a  visit  to  that  little  museum  in  Paris,  where  a 
glass  case  holds  the  mummy  of  Thais  of  Alexan- 
dria;— faded  robes,  bare  bones,  and  a  few  tar- 
nished strands  of  blond  hair  clinging  to  a  horrible 
skull.  Ghastly  relics  such  as  these  hinder,  in- 
stead of  helping  us  to  visualise  the  vanished  beauty. 
The  names  Isfahan  and  vShah  'Abbas  evoke  a 
vision  of  greatness  such  as  my  eyes  shall  never 
see;  but  when  I  pace  the  solitary  Maidan-i-Shah 
or  move  across  these  weary  deserts,  all  the  glory 
that  once  was  Persia,  is  hidden  by  what  lies  before 
me. 

From  these  distressful  reflections  I  am  aroused 
by  the  sight  of  trees  magnified  by  the  mirage-like 


330     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

vibrations  of  the  air.  It  is  Abada,  where  there  is 
a  telegraph- station  with  clean  rooms — an  oasis, 
here  as  eagerly  sought  as  any  I  have  seen  in  the 
Sahara.  On  entering  the  town,  the  earthen  walls 
are  so  rosy  one  expects  to  see  through  their  breaches 
something  other  than  abandoned  orchards;  but 
the  leafless  poplar-trees — like  fine  besoms  of  silver 
green — and  the  fruit-trees  on  which  leaves  and 
blossoms  mingle,  delight  a  desert-weary  eye. 
Finally  the  telegraph-station  is  reached;  and 
through  a  gateway  of  bright  yellow  clay  with 
white  trimmings,  crowned  with  ibex  horns,  I  enter 
a  yellow  courtyard  neatly  kept  and  well  planted, 
off  which  there  is  a  white  and  comfortable  room 
with  tables,  chairs,  and  other  luxuries.  Like  all 
travellers  on  this  road,  I  bless  the  British  manage- 
ment of  the  Indo-European  Telegraph  Depart- 
ment. This  pleasant  and  well-kept  resting  place 
is  made  particularly  agreeable  by  the  courtesy 
of  the  telegraph  operator,  and  the  receipt  of  a 
telegram  from  my  compatriot.  Colonel  B.  asking 
me  to  stay  with  him  on  arriving  at  Shiraz.  Pro- 
visions are  plentiful  but  unpleasant,  since  at 
Abada  almost  the  entire  population  is  said  to 
suffer  from  syphilis. 


April  12*.^ 
Cats  in  Persia  must  certainly  be  possessed  of 
devils,  for  their  craft  is  more  than  feline.     The 
first  news  to  greet  me  this  morning,  is  that  a  cat 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  331 

has  stolen  the  chicken  cooked  to  carry  with  me 
for  lunch!  I  should  never  have  thought  it  pos- 
sible to  dislike  any  animal,  but  a  certain  hostility 
toward  cats — at  least  toward  Persian  pussies — 
begins  to  possess  me,  particularly  as  they  are  not, 
according  to  anticipation,  long-haired  and  hand- 
some  The  sun  is  shining  brightly  in  the 

trim  court  of  the  telegraph -station,  with  its  walls 
of  yellow  clay  so  brilliant  it  might  be  pure  ochre. 
A  few  plants  of  gilly-flower  and  iris  are  in  bloom 
already.  Everything  in  sight  testifies  to  the 
operator's  care;  and  as  I  look  out  between  the 
print  curtains — real  curtains ! — of  my  clean  white- 
washed room,  it  is  all  so  neat  and  restful,  I  can 
scarcely  bear  to  think  of  what  awaits  me  on  the 

road 

This  morning  the  scenery  is  not  so  dreary  as  of 
late.  To  the  right  the  hills  merge  in  the  plain 
at  a  spot  beyond  which  the  snow  mountains  rise 
abruptly  without  intermediate  ranges.  To  the 
left  are  barren  hills  and  snowy  peaks.  From  both 
sides  the  mountains  curve  toward  each  other, 
diminishing  the  while,  until  they  mieet  behind  a 
hill  with  two  summits  like  a  camel's  back.  A  veil 
of  misty  blue  hides  the  distance.  The  land  is 
partially  cultivated,  strewn  here  and  there  with 
patches  of  varying  green.  Small  fortified  vil- 
lages are  frequent ;  riding  between  their  high  walls 
of  clay,  over  which  the  tree-tops  are  just  visible, 
makes  a  break  in  the  monotony,  and  hastens  the 
passage  of  slow-footed  hours.     In  other  countries 


332      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

this  would  seem  but  a  sorry  landscape;  here  it  is 
interesting. 

The  phenomenon  that  I  have  observed  every 
morning,  is  now  taking  place.  On  starting,  not  a 
cloud  is  to  be  seen,  or  at  most  a  few  shreds  of 
white  drifting  across  the  mountain-tops.  Then 
about  ten  or  eleven  o'clock,  they  begin  to  float 
into  sight,  banking  up  on  the  rocky  peaks;  whence 
they  move  insensibly  across  the  sky,  until  it  is 
covered  with  an  all  but  unbroken  mass  of  grey- 
white.  At  the  present  moment,  they  are  flocking 
across  the  hills,  in  groups  of  shining  white,  dap- 
pling the  ground  with  shadow. 

To-day's  stage  is  very  short,  and  almost  before 
I  realise  it  to  be  possible,  Surmak  comes  into 
sight;  the  ground  has  grown  barren  once  more, 
changing  from  brown  to  ashes  of  roses  with  stony 
patches  of  palest  lilac.  Ahead  of  us  the  clouds 
have  dropped  long  banners  of  rainy  vapour,  trail- 
ing half-way  down  the  mountain  flanks.  Ruined 
walls,  roofless  but  pierced  by  arches,  attest  the 
fact  that  we  are  approaching  the  village ;  otherwise 
it  would  be  difficult  to  judge  the  distance,  since 
the  air  quivers  with  heat  as  though  the  finest  of 
silver  gauzes  were  waving  between  us  and  Sur- 
mak. To  the  left  among  green  fields  of  grain,  a 
great  mound  of  earth  stands  out,  sculptured  by 
wind  and  the  waters  of  the  rain — doubtless  once  a 
citadel  built  for  security  against  robber  nomads. 
Donkeys  cross  our  path  from  every  direction, 
bearing  enormous  burdens  of  what  is  here  used 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  333 

for  fire- wood — a  low  withered  shrub  plucked  with 
all  its  roots — which  makes  a  short  bright  blaze 
and  exhales  a  pleasantly  aromatic  odour.  The 
loads  are  so  huge,  they  hide  all  of  the  donkey 
but  the  head  and  legs;  indeed,  at  a  distance  they 
seem  to  move  by  themselves  on  four  small  legs. 
The  donkeys  are — like  ourselves — making  for  the 
gates,  through  the  ruins  that  precede  and  often 
constitute  the  larger  part  of  all  Persian  villages. 
These  expanses  of  waste  land  and  fallen  dwellings 
add  to  the  sadness  of  travel  here;  since  they  pro- 
duce on  arrival  an  impression  of  entering,  not 
an  abode  of  the  living,  but  a  ruin  where  homeless 
wanderers  have  sought  refuge. 

While  Said  and  Husayn  go  in  search  of  lodgings, 
my  caravan  halts  in  front  of  a  narrow  gate,  through 
which  the  donkeys  and  their  loads  have  to  be 
skilfully  pushed.  Carrion  always  strews  the  ground 
around  these  villages,  for  to  death  and  decay  all 
Orientals  seem  indifferent.  Here  the  bloated 
carcass  of  a  dog  is  lying  on  its  back  among  the 
boulders,  with  rigid  legs  standing  out  above  the 
enormous  putrefaction  of  its  belly.  The  inhabit- 
ants flock  out  to  see  that  curious  animal,  a  Euro- 
pean— the  walls  soon  being  lined  with  silent  but 
eager  spectators,  some  of  whom  gather  in  knots 
about  my  mules.  Before  long  my  emissaries 
return  to  tell  me  all  the  rooms  are  quite  impossible ; 
they  are,  however,  accompanied  by  a  youth  who 
says  he  can  show  us  the  way  to  a  decent  place. 
As  he  has  a  Sun  and  Lion  badge  on  his  bonnet, 


334     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

he  must  be  some  sort  of  a  gendarme;  his  long  robe, 
once  wine-coloured,  is  now  faded  to  a  beautiful 
shade  of  amethyst.  As  he  walks  ahead  of  us,  with 
his  wide  trousers  flapping  about  his  heels  like  a 
skirt,  his  amethystine  garment  and  the  rose- 
coloured  walls  of  clay  make  a  subtle  harmony 
no  painter  would  disdain. 

Poplars  rise  above  the  walls,  slender  shafts 
apparently  of  poHshed  jade,  that  would  lend 
poetry  to  any  scene.  Far  away  I  can  see  the 
brown  sharp  hills,  the  louring  clouds,  and  the  plain 
flecked  with  shadow,  rising  slightly  like  a  sea  of 
indescribable  hue — neither  brown,  nor  grey,  nor 
green,  nor  blue,  but  a  faded  mixture  of  all.  Our 
way  twists  through  narrow  streets  imprisoned 
between  high  walls  of  clay,  over  which  the  blos- 
somy  boughs  of  fruit-trees  hang.  Several  women 
pass  with  uncovered  faces,  but  shrouded  in  long 
veils  of  black  or  dark  blue,  held  tightly  around  the 
head,  whence  they  float  down  and  outward  to  the 
ground.  With  their  heads  modelled  by  these 
mantles,  and  everything  but  their  faces  concealed, 
they  look  like  tragic  madonnas  strangely  out  of 
place  in  Persian  villages.  We  must  still  be  out- 
side the  town  proper,  since  we  keep  skirting  a 
lofty  and  bastioned  wall,  that  is  very  picturesque 
with  its  jagged  crenellations  and  crumbled 
surfaces. 

After  many  windings,  I  dismount  before  a 
narrow  gate  in  the  midst  of  high  walls.  On  enter- 
ing, I  stop  short  with  surprise — for  I  find  myself 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  335 

in  a  Persian  garden,  once  a  prince's  plaything, 
now  an  abandoned  but  charming  ruin.  In  the 
centre  stands  a  small  pavilion,  built — it  is  true — 
of  dried  clay,  but  neatly  and  with  narrow  pilasters ; 
on  each  side  three  arcades  closed  by  doors  give 
access  to  a  room,  flanked  on  either  side  by  the 
entrance  to  a  vaulted  passage.  A  trellis  carrying 
vines  not  yet  in  leaf,  surrounds  the  building. 
Needless  to  state,  every  door  is  open,  and  the 
whole  place  falling  into  decay.  Still  it  is  clean, 
and  in  the  midst  of  that  enchanting  thing,  a  walled 
garden,  which,  though  neglected,  is  still  filled 
with  young  fruit-trees,  curving  their  long  twigs 
under  the  white  or  rosy  weight  of  blossoms. 

In  front  of  my  room,  at  the  foot  of  a  low  terrace, 
is  a  little  stream  that  fills  the  air  with  the  murmur 
of  moving  water,  as  it  flows  into  the  garden  under 
an  arch  in  one  wall  and  out  of  another  on  the  oppo- 
site side.  It  is  bordered  by  two  rows  of  stately 
poplars,  but  this  being  Persia,  all  the  finest  ones 
have  just  been  felled,  and  are  now  lying  in  a  tangle 
on  the  ground ;  some  already  stripped  of  their  bark 
look  like  bars  of  golden  ivory;  those  untouched 
are  a  pale  silvery  green,  so  polished  they  seem  of 
marble.  It  is  a  sorrowful  sight,  but  so  is  almost 
everything  in  Persia.  A  high  wall  of  golden  earth 
closes  the  view;  above  which  I  can  see  the  purple- 
brown  flanks  of  a  barren  hill  against  a  sky,  where 
one  white  cloud  is  almost  crushed  beneath  a  bank 
of  threatening  grey.  The  note  of  a  bird  comes 
fluting  from  time  to  time ;  the  wind  sighs  through 


336     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

swaying  poplar-tops;  and  always  there  is  the 
liquid  music  of  the  brook  rippling  up  to  my 
ears 

The  village  chief  has  just  sent  a  gendarme  to 
express  his  regrets  that  a  broken  leg  prevents  his 
visiting  me;  and  to  bring  me  a  tray  with  a  plate 
of  pistache  nuts,  a  bottle  of  wine,  and  an  enamelled 
cup  in  which  wet  cotton  holds  in  place  a  beautiful 
bunch  of  purple  iris;  he  has  also  sent  two  guards 
to  sleep  outside  the  house  to-night.  In  their 
sense  of  hospitality  and  courtesy,  the  Persians 
of  to-day  still  show  a  refinement  worthy  of  their 
past. 

Sunset  from  the  terraced  roof  of  the  pavilion. 
On  all  hands  a  jumble  of  high  walls,  now  brown, 
from  among  which  trees  rise  in  profusion;  a  kind 
I  do  not  know,  spreads  its  bare  boughs  very  far 
in  an  olive  haze  of  just  budding  leaves ;  below  them 
are  abundant  blossoms  and  foliage,  where  fruit- 
trees  grow,  and  here  and  there  poplars  pointing 
skyward.  Beyond  this,  the  brown  walls  and 
loftier  towers  of  the  f ortress- village ;  above  them 
a  group  of  the  slenderest  poplars,  still  without 
leaves,  swaying  like  ghosts  in  the  breezes.  Be- 
yond the  umber  town,  but  so  near  as  apparently 
to  touch  it,  are  the  equally  umber  mountains, 
mantled  with  snow  and  canopied  by  clouds. 
Looking  westward,  the  sun  has  just  sunk  behind 
deep  blue  hills,  between  sombre  piles  of  bluish 
cloud,  whose  blazing  edges  frame  luminous  ex- 
panses of  green-gold  sky.     Eastward,  long  films 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  337 

of  grey  are  flushed  with  rose.  Spring  casting  a 
semblance  of  Hfe  and  grace  over  a  crumbHng  town 
as  day  fades;  what  an  epitome  of  this  hope-for- 
saken land! 

Night-time.  The  moon  is  up,  but  hidden  by 
clouds,  through  which  only  the  dimmest  of  lights 
can  pass.  The  felled  poplar-trees,  prostrate  in  a 
net-work  beside  the  brook  or  among  the  still 
standing  trunks,  gleam  like  blanching  bones. 
Words  cannot  render  the  ghostly  effect  of  this 
pallid  coppice  outlined  against  a  livid  sky,  where 
a  few  stars  peer  through  rifts  in  the  clouds.  The 
rippling  cadence  of  the  stream  and  the  whirring 
sound  of  a  tree-toad  or  nightjar,  echo  through 
the  silence.  It  must  have  been  among  such 
desolate  groves  as  this,  that  the  souls  in  Virgil — 

"ibant  obscuri  sola  sub  nocte  per  umbram 
perque  domes  Ditis  vacuas  et  inania  regna.' 


April  13*.^ 
Last  night,  for  the  fourth  time,  I  suffered  from 
the  malice  of  Persian  cats.  Said  had  gone  out 
after  placing  a  chicken  for  to-day's  luncheon  on  a 
high  chimney-ledge,  and — as  he  thought — com- 
pletely barring  all  means  of  ingress.  However,  a 
wily  puss  managed  to  crawl  through  a  broken 
pane  of  glass,  and  jump  some  six  feet  onto  the 
shelf,  where  she  knocked  over  a  lighted  candle, 
setting  fire  to  a  precious  package  of  tea,  and  bum- 


338      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

ing  the  handle  of  my  revolver.  She  was  about 
to  depart  with  the  cold  chicken,  when  I  heard  a 
clatter  and  rushed  in,  just  in  time  to  save  the  food 
and  extinguish  the  fire.  Cats  really  do  exaggerate 
in  Persia! 

The  voices  of  the  two  gendarmes  on  guard  out- 
side, waked  me  at  dawn;  the  first  sound  I  heard 
was  a  nightingale's  song,  as  liquid  and  as  fluent 
as  the  melody  of  running  water  that  floats  up 
from  the  hidden  brook.  Now  the  sun  is  just 
beginning  to  shine  over  the  high  walls,  touching 
with  gold  one  side  of  the  pavilion,  where  the 
coral-tipped  blossoms  shine  in  the  first  fresh  light. 
The  fallen  poplars  seem  to  cling  like  suppliants 
about  the  shafts  of  those  still  standing;  alas! 
before  many  days  have  passed,  they  too  will  ring 
with  the  blows  of  axes,  waver,  and  then  crash  to 
earth.  The  next  traveller  to  enter  this  ancient 
garden,  will  only  find  a  bare  wreck  without  grace 
or  green. 

After  we  have  wound  out  of  the  tortuous  streets, 
the  plain  shelves  upward  like  a  great  beach,  with 
pointed  hills  emerging  suddenly  as  the  summits 
of  long  submerged  mountains  might  do.  Be- 
yond this  slope,  we  find  the  same  eternal  waste 
that  has  for  days  followed  us  like  scenes  in  a  night- 
mare; only,  here  it  has  been  narrowed  by  con- 
verging hills.  I  now  know  what  must  be  the 
sensations  of  those  unfortunate  adventurers  who, 
in  fairy-tales,  journey  until  exhausted,  only  to  find 
themselves  back  at  their  point  of  departure.     I 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  339 

begin  to  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  escape  from  this 
blighted  country;  and  the  days  that  must  elapse 

before  I  can  take  ship,  seem  countless 

Slowly  we  move  upward  through  the  steadily 
contracting  gorge,  where  a  line  of  telegraph-poles 
makes  the  unchanging  desert  uglier  still.  Black- 
ish clouds  gather  and  then  let  fall  a  sharp  patter 
of  rain.  A  few  monticules  of  rock  dot  the  plain 
as  though  hurled  there  by  some  angered  giant. 
The  hardby  snow-mountains  soon  diminish  to  a 
low  and  unlovely  ridge — almost  black  like  a  snake's 
skin — on  which  the  snow  lies  in  streaks,  as  though 
some  viscous  liquid  had  been  dropped  on  the 
summits  and  left  to  trickle  down  the  ugly  sides. 
The  ground  is  now  broken  by  vast  undulations 
that  we  are  forced  to  climb  and  then  descend, 
one  after  the  other. 

At  last  we  reach  our  destination,  Khan-i-Khora. 
Husayn  says  this  means  the  Horrible  Place;  if  so, 
it  is  well  named.  There  is  no  village,  just  a  cara- 
vanserai ;  here  I  have  a  small  room  begrimed  with 
smoke,  looking  out  on  a  filthy  court  where  straw 
and  dried  manure  are  whirling  in  the  wind.  There 
is  no  door  to  close  the  room,  and  the  doorway 
between  it  and  the  next  cell  has  only  been  half 
bricked  up,  leaving  a  large  hole  through  which  I 
can  see  the  miserable  inhabitants,  and  hear  them 
talk,  cough,  spit,  and  smoke  their  bubbling 
qalyuns.  The  supply  of  water  comes  from  a  pool 
or  shallow  well  in  front  of  the  caravanserai;  it  is 
enclosed,  but  with  large  arches  through  which 


340      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

all  the  flying  filth  can  be  blown  into  the  water. 
Within  a  radius  of  fifty  yards  there  are :  the  local 
lieux  d'aisance;  the  skeleton  of  a  camel  not  yet 
entirely  bare;  and  the  body  of  a  dead  horse  in 
advanced  putrefaction.  Not  daring  to  use  this 
contaminated  liquid  even  after  boiling,  I  set  out 
in  search  of  a  spring  said  to  exist.  At  the  foot  of 
the  hills,  I  find  a  well-mouth;  down  this  a  man 
clambers;  then  a  jug  is  lowered,  and  matches  and 
dried  branches  thrown  do\\Ti.  Smoke  soon  curls 
out  of  the  well,  and  after  a  long  interval,  a  voice 
rises  from  the  earth.  A  jug  of  fairly  clean  water 
is  now  hauled  up,  with  Aliaga — as  his  name  sounds 
to  me — climbing  breathless  up  the  perpendicular 
sides  after  it.  Even  pure  water  is  hard  to  find 
here.  All  these  material  discomforts  would  be 
negligible,  were  there  beautiful  views  or  curious 
sights  to  see;  but  Persia  offers  so  little  compensa- 
tion, it  is  difficult  not  to  long  for  other  countries. 
Across  the  road  is  a  neglected  orchard,  enclosed 
by  half-fallen  walls  of  clay  with  an  abandoned 
dwelling  at  one  comer.  Here  and  there  an  un- 
tended  tree  has  put  forth  a  few  blossoms,  pearly 
white  or  tipped  with  rose;  birds  are  fluttering  in 
the  bare  boughs,  and  three  donkeys  are  playfully 
biting  and  kicking  each  other.  A  gentle  breeze 
sways  the  weedy  grass,  and  two  sable  crows 
wing  across  the  plain  outside,  cawing  hoarsely. 
Stretched  on  a  sloping  trunk,  I  hear  the  mule- 
bells  chime,  as  the  weary  animals  come  to  drink, 
and  then  file  through  a  gap  in  the  walls  to  crop 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  341 

the  scanty  grass.  The  sound  of  their  munching, 
as  they  scatter  under  the  trees,  is  audible  above 
the  tinkHng  of  their  bells.  In  front  of  me  stands 
a  dwarfed  fruit-tree,  its  few  gnarly  boughs  hung 
with  delicate  garlands  of  white  flowers.  To  my 
waste-weary  eyes  they  give  the  same  pleasure 
that  must  have  been  felt  by  those  artists,  who  in 
Japan  so  loved  to  draw  a  single  feathery  spray 
outlined  against  a  bar  of  clouds. 


April  14*.^ 
All  night  the  noise  of  my  neighbours  came 
through  the  broken  walls  from  the  next  room, 
where — to  judge  by  the  sounds — men,  women, 
and  children  of  all  ages,  must  have  been  piled 
promiscuously  together.  By  five  o'clock  even 
the  semblance  of  sleep  had  fled.  Horrid  sounds, 
smoke,  and  evil  smells,  poured  into  my  dirty  cell 
through  the  hole  in  the  wall,  whilst  I  was  dressing 
with  all  possible  haste.  It  is  a  relief  to  find  my- 
self once  more  out  of  doors,  looking  on  something 
tolerably  clean,  even  though  it  be  no  more  attrac- 
tive than  the  desert  upland.  The  sun  has  just 
risen,  and  the  lustreless  ghost  of  a  moon  is  sinking 
toward  the  snow-spangled  crests.  The  snake- 
coloured  mountains  of  last  night  are  now  tawny 
and  less  unlovely;  in  fact  the  arid  scene  has  a 
certain  charm  in  this  clear  early  light. 

It  is  almost  seven  o'clock  when  the  mules  are 
ready  to  start.     I  have  refused  an  escort  of  tu- 


342     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

fangchl,  as  they  are  now  an  unnecessary  expense 
and  nuisance.  We  have  only  gone  a  few  hundred 
yards,  when  I  hear  shouts  and  see  an  old  man 
rushing  toward  me,  his  footgear  and  hat  in  his 
hands,  and  his  long  white  hair  streaming  in  the 
wind.  He  runs  up  to  me,  quite  out  of  breath, 
shouting  something  of  which  I  can  only  under- 
stand the  word  tufangchl.  While  talking,  he 
puts  on  his  linen  shoes,  and  places  on  the  back  of 
his  head  an  extremely  high  bonnet  with  a  cabba- 
listic device  in  brass.  He  stoops  as  he  walks 
beside  my  horse,  with  his  hand  on  the  small  of 
his  back,  breathing  loud  and  painfully — the 
image  of  a  distressed  magician  in  a  fairy  tale. 
When  Husayn  comes  up,  I  discover  that  he  is  an 
employee  of  the  Telegraph  Department,  and  the 
owner  of  the  ravaged  orchard  which  last  evening 
delighted  me.  He  says  the  tufangchl  have  been 
making  his  life  miserable,  and  have  this  minute 
cut  off  his  indispensable  supply  of  water ;  insisting 
that  he  dare  not  remain  here  any  longer,  he  begs 
my  permission  to  accompany  us  to  Dihbid.  He 
has  an  honest  face,  and  arouses  pity  as  he  pants 
and  hobbles  along;  so  after  giving  him  some  bread 
and  tea,  I  have  him  mounted  on  a  mule. 

It  transpires  that  he  has  lived  at  Khan-i-Khora 
for  twenty  years,  and  was — in  the  days  of  post- 
travel  on  this  road — the  prosperous  owner  of  the 
horses  here  and  at  the  neighbouring  stages.  All 
his  horses  were  stolen  by  robbers,  who  also  sacked 
his  orchard  and  carried  off  his  flocks  a  few  years 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  343 

ago.  Unattractive  though  Persia  be,  it  is  impos- 
sible not  to  be  deeply  moved  by  the  suffering 
and  abject  misery  that  stare  the  travellers  in  the 
face  at  every  turn.  Strangled  by  the  Great 
Powers  (one  of  them  a  champion  of  liberty,  in 
this  case  forced  to  violate  all  her  best  traditions) 
and  plundered  within  by  brigands  and  cor- 
rupt officials,  this  is  to-day  the  most  hopeless 
country  I  have  ever  seen.  The  words  Husayn 
used  a  few  days  since,  haunt  me  yet:  "Ah! 
Monsieur,   la    Perse    est    bien    dans    la    misere 

aujourd'hui." 

Our  road  winds  up  a  steep  grade,  between  sandy 
hillocks  covered  with  grey  tufts  of  dried  grass. 
Here  and  there  gullies  are  filled  by  a  fuzzy  growth 
of  violet-grey  shrubs;  but  in  general  only  yellow 
earth  and  clumps  of  windlestraw  greet  the  eye, 
as  we  toil  steadily  up  the  twisting  path.  So 
unexpectedly  as  to  startle,  a  cuckoo's  note  rings 
out  through  the  silent  air  from  the  tawny  crest 
of  a  hill,  and  is  answered  by  the  call  of  its  mate. 
The  birds  are  far  above  me,  out  of  sight,  and  their 
music  seems  to  descend  like  the  aerial  chime  of 
invisible  bells.  In  a  flash,  this  familiar  cry  has 
evoked  the  forests  of  the  Ile-de-France  at  the 
height  of  spring.  The  barren  uplands  have 
vanished,  and  I  find  myself  riding  through  ferny 
glades  among  boles  of  birch-trees,  under  the 
shade  of  their  far-spread  boughs.  The  ground  is 
strewn  with  timid  sprays  of  lily-of-the-valley, 
or  half  hidden  by  the  concourse  of  yellow  jonquils 


344     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

nodding  in  the  sun — like  golden  butterflies  hover- 
ing over  a  carpet  of  russet  leaves.  The  air  is 
filled  with  the  sound  of  pealing  bells,  as  through 
the  green  gloom  cuckoos  call  from  bough  to  bough. 
Then  the  vision  is  gone,  and  I  find  myself  back 
on  the  hills  of  Persia,  seized  by  that  nostalgia 
which  recollections  of  the  loveliest  comer  of  the 
world  always  provoke. 

The  ascent  is  now  very  steep,  and  the  rounded 
hillocks  have  closed  in,  sloping  upward  directly 
above  us.  In  places  they  are  covered  with  grey 
thorn-bushes,  leafless  but  with  flowers  so  minute, 
they  are  only  distinguishable  where  they  cluster 
in  a  haze  of  pale  mauve.  By  the  road-side 
clumps  of  an  humble  flower  rather  like  a  moth  are 
frequent,  its  small  leaves  lilac-grey  outside,  but 
within,  yellow  at  the  heart  and  at  the  tip.  Around 
a  bend  in  the  road,  I  come  suddenly  upon  four 
scarlet  tulips  growing  in  a  stretch  of  yellow  earth 
— like  drops  of  blood  on  a  lion's  fell.  Then  other 
clusters  appear  among  the  weeds  and  under  thorn- 
bushes.  Here  in  this  desolate  fawn-coloured 
gorge,  the  sight  of  these  vermilion  blossoms  is  as 
startling  as  a  sudden  trumpet  call.  One  of  the 
muleteers  has  just  gathered  a  handful  of  the  gaudy 
cups  (with  black  hearts  outlined  with  yellow) 
standing  erect  between  long  pendent  leaves,  and 
brought  them  to  me  with  a  pleasant  smile;  so  my 
hands  are  filled  with  gay  flowers  as  I  climb  the 
hill.  The  cuckoos  have  long  been  left  behind; 
but  little  birds  constantly  flit  across  the  road  or 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  345 

glide  down  among  the  tufts  of  grass,  filling  the 
air  with  a  melodious  twitter.  The  sight  of  flut- 
tering birds  and  of  flowers  robed  like  flames, 
recalls  the  forgotten  fact  that  even  on  these 
upland  wastes : 

"...  Aprille  with  his  shoures  sote 
The  droughte  of  Marche  hath  perced  to  the  rote." 

We  have  now  almost  reached  the  summit, 
toward  which  we  have  so  long  been  climbing. 
White  piles  of  snow  still  lie  in  shaded  nooks.  The 
muleteers  frolic  with  it,  one  even  gathering  a  large 
lump  which  he  carries  on  his  head.  Finally  at  a 
height  of  some  eight  thousand  feet  above  the  sea, 
we  emerge  on  a  vast  plateau  boiuidedb}'' naked  hills, 
beyond  which  there  is  to  westward  a  loftier  range 
thickly  strewn  with  snow.  Riding  along,  the 
air  is  clear  and  invigorating,  as  befits  one  of  the 
shoulders  of  the  world.  Before  long  we  encounter 
a  band  of  tufangchi  sent  from  Dihbid  to  meet  me — 
for  the  telegraph-operators  kindly  send  word 
from  station  to  station  when  travellers  are  passing. 
Then  a  few  minutes  later  a  second  group  appears, 
this  time  on  horseback.  They  line  up  to  salute, 
then  fall  in ;  so  I  ride  along  with  my  caravan  in  the 
midst  of  a  small  army. 

Black  clouds  are  now  gathering  from  every 
quarter,  while  from  behind,  an  inky  sheet  of  rain 
rushes  across  the  sky  toward  us.  To  the  left 
high  pointed  peaks  striped  with  snow  rise  sud- 


346     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

denly,  sweeping  forward  across  the  horizon;  and 
great  undulations  cut  the  plain  with  a  series  of 
long  hills  up  which  we  mount  and  descend,  as 
though  gliding  down  waves.  Suddenly  there  is  a 
long  declivity,  at  the  foot  of  which  Dihbid  lies  be- 
fore us; — a  group  of  trees  and  hovels  in  the  centre 
of  a  great  plain  hemmed  in  by  high  mountains 
now  hung  with  storm-clouds,  striping  the  earth 
with  alternate  bands  of  shadow  and  pale  grey  light. 
It  is  a  dreary  view,  yet,  in  its  desolate  way,  im- 
pressive ;  a  place  where  the  Horse  Whose  Rider  Is 
Death  might  choose  to  pass  in  the  roaring  of  this 
gale.  Gradually  we  draw  nearer — my  armed 
horsemen  galloping  around  me  as  I  ride  ahead  of 
the  caravan — and  soon  reach  a  few  half -ruined 
huts  of  dried  mud.  Goats  are  standing  on  the 
roof,  and  two  gipsy-like  women  are  seated  on  a 
terrace,  where  a  piece  of  scarlet  cotton  spread  on  a 
rock,  stands  out  violently  in  this  ominous  gloom. 
This  hamlet  has,  like  so  many  others,  been  pil- 
laged and  wrecked  by  robbers  in  recent  years. 
The  telegraph  station  is  situated  within  an  en- 
closure that  could  easily  be  defended  against 
attack.  The  operator  is  in  this  case  an  English- 
man of  education  and  wide  experience,  who 
receives  me  with  a  cordial  hospitality  that  I 
shall  not  forget,  even  though  I  shall  probably 
never  have  an  opportunity  to  show  my  appre- 
ciation of  it.  To  find  volumes  of  Wilde,  Emer- 
son, and  Shakespeare  in  this  Persian  solitude 
seems  fantastic. 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  347 

April  I5*> 
From  Dihbid  the  road  ascends,  then  once  more 
crosses  the  endless  plains,  whose  dun  monotony- 
seems  almost  more  than  nerves  can  bear.  After 
several  hours  there  is  a  slight  but  welcome  change 
in  the  landscape.  We  now  travel  over  a  series 
of  vast  undulations,  tinged  with  orange  and  sepa- 
rated one  from  the  other  by  marshy  levels,  where 
short  grass  grows  in  water  and  salt  deposits  form 
white  streaks.  Then  we  climb  a  steep  hill  strewn 
with  boulders,  and  descend  the  opposite  slope 
through  a  serpentine  gorge.  The  hillsides  look 
as  if  covered  with  iron  refuse  and  rust.  The  hills 
gradually  close  in,  until  they  overhang  us  in  shaly 
masses  of  orange-brown  pierced  by  jagged  rocks. 
Bushes,  not  unlike  the  gorse  but  with  white  blos- 
soms tinged  with  pink  at  the  heart,  grow  in 
.crevices.  The  scene  is  scarcely  pretty,  but  arouses 
expectation  at  each  bend,  which  is  delightful 
after  days  in  the  desert.  After  leaving  the  gorge 
and  crossing  uplands  intersected  by  brooks,  Qadi- 
rabad  comes  into  sight  below  a  stony  ridge.  It 
is  as  usual  surrounded  by  rectangular  walls,  with 
bastions  at  the  comers  and  in  the  centre  of  each 
side.  The  high  gateway  is  crowned  with  curved 
ibex  horns,  in  these  parts  a  frequent  decoration. 

A  possible  lodging  is  only  to  be  had  with  much 
difficulty ;  on  a  roof  two  dirty  rooms  separated  by 
a  terrace,  under  which  women  are  weaving  car- 
pets. A  part  of  my  kit  is  carried  up  the  narrow 
stairs  by  a  man  who  has  been  travelling  with  my 


348     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

caravan  all  day.  I  discover  him  crouched  on  the 
ground,  searching  my  saddle-bags;  so  he  has  to 
be  driven  out  by  a  shower  of  kicks,  and  orders 
given  that  he  is  not  to  be  allowed  to  travel  with 
us  again.  The  air  is  heavy  with  the  acrid  smell 
of  all  Persian  villages,  and  is  filled  with  the  noise 
of  women  fighting  over  their  children  like  squeal- 
ing furies.  The  descending  sun  touches  the  walls 
opposite  me  with  rose,  poplar-tops  bow  in  the 
breeze,  and  birds  twitter  in  the  golden  light;  but 
the  shrieking  voices,  filth,  and  evil  odours,  are 
what  most  impress  my  weary  senses. 


April  i6*^ 
There  is  a  certain  excitement  in  starting  this 
morning,  for  to-day's  journey  takes  us  past  the 
spot  where  once  Pasargadae  stood.  When  we 
leave  about  six  o'clock,  there  is  perfect  pande- 
monium outside  the  gates,  where  the  chief  of  the 
tiifangchl  and  most  of  the  villagers  are  grouped. 
They  gather  round,  insisting  that  I  ought  to  take 
the  usual  caravan  route;  but  no  consideration  of 
comfort  or  safety  shall  cause  me  to  pass  the  Tomb 
of  Cyrus  by,  un visited.  Finally  we  start  across 
country,  led  by  a  mounted  suwdr.  The  ground, 
no  longer  barren,  is  covered  with  men  tilling  the 
fields  with  primitive  wooden  ploughs — moving 
slowly  across  the  plain  behind  their  oxen,  with 
that  picturesque  air  which  the  Persian's  high 
bonnet   always   lends   him   at   a   distance.     Our 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  349 

path  is  constantly  cut  by  streams  and  water  con- 
duits, through  which  we  splash  and  scramble. 
On  the  bank  of  a  sizable  brook,  we  come  upon 
three  wonderful  birds  of  the  species  known  in 
Algeria  as  le  chasseur  d'Afrique.  They  are  large 
and  of  pale  but  vividly  green  plumage,  with  russet 
shoulders  and  wings  tipped  with  black.  They 
are  wheeling  above  a  sandy  hill,  screaming  like 
jays.  In  Persia  so  small  an  incident  as  this 
stands  out  in  the  day's  journey. 

After  several  hours  spent  in  crossing  hills,  we 
reach  the  village  of  Dih-i-Nuh,  now  in  ruins,  and 
abandoned  on  account  of  robber  raids.  A  few 
hundred  yards  further  on,  after  passing  the  hill- 
crest,  a  yellow  foundation  wall  crossing  an  emi- 
nence suddenly  appears  on  our  left.  It  was  once 
an  audience-hall  of  the  Achaemenian  kings,  but  is 
now  known  as  the  Taldit-i-Sulaiman — the  Throne 
of  Solomon.  For  the  names  of  the  Achsemenians, 
even  of  Cyrus  the  Great,  are  unknown  to  those 
who  dwell  in  the  lands  where  once  they  ruled; 
whereas  the  fabulous  fame  of  Solomon  has  stirred 
popular  imagination  to  a  point  where  it  attributes 
to  him  all  vestiges  of  splendour.  After  stumbling 
over  boulders  and  thorns,  among  which  small  red 
flowers  grow,  I  reach  the  platform  which  is  all 
that  remains  of  the  palace,  and  find  the  whole 
plain  of  Murghab  spread  before  me.  In  front,  a 
meadow  of  soft  brown,  yellow,  and  green — like 
faded  tapestry — extends  to  the  hill-ranges.  The 
gap  left  between  the  two  chains,  is  closed  by  a 


350     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

peak  just  tipped  with  snow.  Below  me  to  the 
left  are  scattered  ruins,  supposedly  those  of  Pasar- 
gadae,  the  first  capital  of  the  Persian  Empire, 
founded — it  is  said — by  Cyrus  the  Great  on  the 
spot  where  he  overthrew  his  grandfather,  Asty- 
ages,  King  of  Media.  Even  of  ruins  but  little 
remains:  a  yellow  piece  of  wall,  a  monolith,  a 
platform  with  a  column,  a  block  of  stone,  and 
further  off  at  the  foot  of  the  hills  close  to  a  cara- 
vanserai, the  Tomb  of  Cyrus — a  small  stone 
building,  like  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  resting  on 
a  flight  of  steps  beside  a  barren  tree.  A  vast 
meadow  strewn  with  a  few  bits  of  wrought  stone, 
and  one  or  two  mud  villages,  where  more  than 
twenty  centuries  ago  there  stood  the  city  of  the 
most  splendid  sovereigns  of  the  antique  world. 

Resting  here,  it  is  impossible  not  to  wonder  what 
manner  of  men  looked  out  on  these  same  hills 
two  thousand  years  ago.  Doubtless,  according  to 
our  standards,  barbarians  in  many  ways;  but  at 
least  the  royal  beings  who  paced  these  walls, 
must  have  possessed  a  hieratic  grandeur,  a  majesty 
quasi-divine,  so  long  lost  we  modems  can  scarcely 
conceive  it.  In  material  ways  they  were  probably 
less  fortunate  than  modem  artisans;  but  in  things 
spiritual,  it  is  perhaps  not  altogether  fanciful  to 
think  them  endowed  with  an  esoteric  experience 
no  longer  known.  With  what  eyes  did  they  gaze 
between  these  hill-set  pillars;  above  all,  what 
thoughts  flitted  through  their  minds  as  their  feet 
trod  the  once  polished  but  now  ruined  stones  on 


The  Tomb  of  Cyrus  the  Great,  Pasargadae 


J| 


Goats  and  Children  Guard  the  Tomb  that  Alexander  of  Macedon  Entered  with  Reverence 


1  ' 

1 

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1 

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^H 

ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  351 

which  I  stand  to-day?  Wherein  were  they  like 
and  wherein  did  they  differ  from  us?  Oh!  for 
one  flash  of  illumination,  whereby  to  divine  the 
mentality  of  a  Cyrus !     Idle  thoughts,  but  like  all 

vain  things  not  unalluring 

Standing  by  itself  on  the  plain,  a  square  shaft 
of  yellowed  marble  some  six  yards  high,  rises  from 
the  sandy  ground  and  stubbly  grass.  On  its 
face  are  three  lines  of  arrow-like  characters — 
cuneiform  inscriptions  that  I  cannot  read.  Yet 
this  abandoned  piece  of  stone  wreckage  bathed  in 
sunlight,  thrills  me;  for  those  little  dashes  that  I 
am  looking  at,  here  in  the  fields  of  Murghab,  form 
the  famous  tri-lingual  phrase:  "I  am  Cyrus  the 
King  the  Achaemenian,"  whose  proud  simplicity 
stirred  me  even  when,  a  small  boy,  I  first  read  it 
in  school-books.  The  ruins  of  the  royal  palace 
are  not  particularly  interesting,  but  the  nearby 
block  of  stone,  with  its  winged  figure  carved  in  low 
relief,  is  extremely  so.  Somewhat  to  my  surprise, 
I  find  it  deeply  impressive.  Does  it  represent  a 
divinity  or  a  king?  or  is  it  really — as  supposed — 
an  image  of  Cyrus  the  Great?  The  idea  that  it 
may  be  his  portrait  is  stirring,  yet  does  not  really 
matter,  since  the  bas-relief  is  in  itself  very  noble, 
even  when  half -effaced,  covered  with  lichen,  and 
at  this  hour  in  shadow.  These  archaic  artists 
by  their  symbolism,  spiritual  fervour,  and  enforced 
simplicity,  attained  a  hieratic  beauty  no  modem 
work — however  fine — can  achieve.  This  figure 
expresses  the  remoteness  of  majesty  or  divinity 


352     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

with  wonderful  success;  even  its  mannerism  and 
deliberate  distortion  of  perspective  seem,  not  so 
much  a  defect,  as  a  chosen  form  of  art. 

A  gallop  of  a  few  seconds  brings  me  to  the  Tomb 
of  Cyrus.  There  is  mockery  in  the  fact  that  it  is 
now  known  as  the  Tomb  of  the  Mother  of  Solomon, 
and  is  surrounded  by  the  graves  of  Muslims. 
This  group  of  stones  was — we  know — visited  by 
the  world-shaking  Alexander  of  Macedon;  and 
of  what  he  saw  the  account  of  an  eye-witness  has 
been  preserved  in  a  later  chronicle : — 

"Aristobulus  ....  says  that  there  was  in 
Persia,  in  the  royal  paradise,  the  tomb  of  that 
Cyrus.  About  it  had  been  planted  a  grove  of  all 
kinds,  and  it  was  watered  with  streams,  and  deep 
grass  had  grown  up  in  the  meadow.  ...  In 
the  house  was  placed  a  golden  coffin  where  the 
body  of  Cyrus  was  buried,  and  a  couch  beside  the 
coffin.  The  feet  of  the  couch  were  of  hammer- 
beaten  gold,  and  it  had  a  cover  of  Babylonian 
tapestries  and  thick  carpets  of  purple  were  strewn 
beneath  it,  and  there  was  also  upon  it  a  tunic 
and  other  garments  of  Babylonian  workmanship. 
.  .  .  And  in  the  middle  of  the  couch  was  placed 
the  coffin  which  held  the  body  of  Cyrus." 

Of  the  columns  once  surrounding  the  tomb,  a 
few  fragments  still  remain.  The  building  is  very 
small  and  without  ornament.  The  steps  on 
which  it  is  placed,  are  built  of  huge  blocks,  so  high 
that  to  clamber  up  them  is  all  a  tall  man  can  do. 
Ruin  and  nature  have  now  made  the  sepulchre 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  353 

their  own;  plants  grow  in  fissures,  bushes  crown  the 
steps,  and  from  the  roof  a  small  tree  rises  Hke  a 
banner.  Goats  and  kids  sport  at  its  base,  whilst 
half-naked  children  play  on  the  steps  that  the 
Macedonian  mounted  with  awe;  from  the  burial 
chamber  which  he  must  have  entered  with  rever- 
ence, a  village  slattern  rushes  out  as  I  step  in. 
The  door  is  open  to  animals  and  all  the  winds; 
inside  there  is  nothing  but  a  cell  begrimed  with 
smoke,  where  strings  of  bells  are  hung  across  the 
end,  and  prayer-papers  lie  in  hollows  scooped  in 
the  floor. 

In  this  exiguous  space  Alexander  bowed  his 
conquering  head ;  here  even  the  vandal  who  burned 
Persepolis,  revered  the  founder  of  a  race  to  whose 
glory  he  had  made  an  end ;  the  body  of  Cyrus  and 
all  its  trappings  have  long  disappeared — who 
knows  whither? — now  neglect  and  ruin  reign. 
Could  the  Great  King  for  one  moment  return,  it 
would  be  impossible  for  him  to  comprehend  what 
has  happened.  That  his  imperial  tomb  should 
be  desecrated  and  overgrown  with  thorns,  while 
goats  graze  the  grass  where  his  stately  city  once 
stood, — he  could  scarcely  conceive;  and  he  would 
find  small  consolation  in  the  fact  that  when  cen- 
tury after  century  had  fallen  into  the  abyss  of 
time,  men  should  still  come  to  visit  the  stone  that 
once  held  the  wax-embalmed  body  of  Cyrus  the 
Achaemenian.  It  is  true  that  even  now  travellers 
are  thrilled,  when  they  see  the  burial-place  of  the 
King  of  Kings,  who  once  filled  all  the  world  with 
33 


354     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  rumour  of  his  fame ;  but  to-day  is  it  more  than 
a  wind-borne  echo?  Of  Kay  Khusraw,  who  dried 
the  Euphrates  and  marched  up  the  river-bed  at 
night  to  take  great  Babylon  by  stratagem  in  the 
midst  of  her  pride,  what  is  left  but  a  vaulting 
name  and,  in  text-books,  a  few  lines  to  stir  a  school- 
boy?— Once  again  "vanity  of  vanity"  in  all  its 
platitude ;  yet  in  spots  like  this  it  returns  with  such 
a  poignancy  as  makes  it  seem  a  discovery. 

Riding  slowly  off,  I  look  over  my  shoulders  to 
take  the  last  glance  I  shall  probably  ever  have 
at  the  stones  that  must  have  met  the  gaze  of 
Alexander  when  he  entered  the  plain  of  Murghab. 
The  road  now  enters  a  cleft  in  the  hills,  ciu-ving 
through  the  Tang-i-Bulaghi.  The  rocks  rise 
above  us  on  both  sides  in  sheer  walls;  sometimes 
the  path  is  actually  cut  in  the  face  of  the  cliff, 
and  is  so  narrow  only  one  mule  can  pass  at  a  time. 
At  the  bottom  a  muddy  stream  dashes  between 
the  high  perpendicular  banks  it  has  cut  through 
the  loam  in  past  ages.  It  no  longer  fills  its  bed; 
feathery  plumes  of  sedge  wave  beside  the  water, 
then  olive-green  willows  with  fine  foliage  grow 
up  to  the  banks,  above  which  their  tops  hardly 
rise.  Where  the  hills  are  less  abrupt,  shrub-like 
trees  grow  in  such  regular  rows  they  seem  planted 
by  men.  The  air  is  murmurous  with  the  swish 
of  running  water,  the  twitter  of  birds,  and  the 
croaking  chorus  of  frogs.  The  scenery  is  not 
particularly  beautiful;  yet  after  days  spent  in 
the  desert,  this  wild  gorge — where  the  twisting 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  355 

road  at  each  turn  affords  new  vistas — seems  a 
small  Eden. 

Beyond  this  defile  the  road  crosses  meadow- 
lands,  and  then  enters  a  broad  valley  that  might 
be  in  the  Alps,  were  it  not  for  camels  grazing,  while 
their  drivers  lie  on  the  grass  beside  the  bales. 
Outside  a  village,  we  pass  a  walled  garden  filled 
with  trees  covered  with  vivid  green  foliage.  Large 
trees  in  full  leaf!  their  real  beauty  can  only  be 
appreciated  in  countries  where  they  are  rare. 
Then  the  valley  contracts,  becomes  wilder,  and 
turns  sharply  to  the  left.  Ahead  of  us  is  quite  a 
river;  a  large  bridge  once  spanned  it,  but  is  now 
in  ruin,  so  the  only  passage  is  across  a  ford.  This 
stream  is  often  so  swift  and  deep  as  to  be  impass- 
able. Fortunately  it  is  only  knee-high  to-day, 
but  the  animals,  in  fording,  slip  and  flounder  from 
stone  to  stone;  so  the  crossing  is  not  without 
excitement. 

To  the  left,  the  angle  where  the  valley  changes 
direction,  is  formed  by  a  bare  and  sloping  hill. 
Near  the  summit  a  shoulder  of  rock  emerges  sud- 
denly, in  the  semblance  of  a  grotesque  human 
face  with  upturned  snout — such  as  Goya  loved  to 
picture  in  his  Caprices.  When  we  have  crossed  the 
river  and  turned  this  vast  buttress,  it  towers  beside 
the  road — a  square  mass  of  tawny  rock.  In- 
numerable crows  wheel  round  its  apex  and  dash 
into  the  crevices,  cawing  wildly,  quite  as  though 
it  were  the  ruins  of  some  rough-hewn  cathedral 
tower.     In   a  wide   depression — once  the   river- 


356     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

bed — is  a  grove  of  trees,  mainly  poplars,  fledged 
with  fresh  green  that  caresses  the  eye.  Through 
this  coppice  the  narrow  stream  now  winds;  on 
the  further  side  a  cliff  rears  its  swelling  bastion 
of  purple-brown,  and  then  sinks  toward  the  plain 
in  long  curving  bands  of  vertical  flutes.  The  fast- 
sinking  sun  fills  the  air  with  a  gentle  radiance, 
melancholy  like  all  departing  things.  Before 
long  Sivand  appears  at  the  end  of  the  grove;  the 
sun  is  about  to  set  when  we  reach  the  telegraph- 
station,  which  stands  outside  the  village — looking 
like  a  royal  villa. 

Sitting  on  the  porch,  the  valley  spreads  before 
me  in  the  twilight,  imtil  the  mountains  abruptly 
fence  it  in.  From  the  gardens  in  the  grove  beside 
the  river,  men  and  women  are  wending  across  the 
meadows  toward  the  tiny  brown  houses  that  con- 
stitute the  village.  The  men  carry  spades  over 
their  shoulders,  and  wear  those  high  bonnets  that 
always  recall  the  Kings  come  from  the  East;  the 
women  walk  in  separate  groups — grave  figures 
with  mantles  falling  from  the  head  until  they 
trail  on  the  ground.  In  the  evening  light  the 
scene  is  pastoral,   a   quality  more  than  rare  in 

this  country When  night  draws  her  veil 

hung  with  stars,  the  chorus  of  frogs  is  loud  enough 
to  deafen.  Their  croaking  sounds  as  though  it 
were  the  noise  of  some  object  revolving  and  grind- 
ing at  one  point  in  each  revolution;  yet  it  has  a 
rhythm  not  without  fascination,  as  I  listen  to  it 
vibrating  through  the  dark. 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  357 

April  17*^ 
Just  as  my  caravan  is  starting,  a  curious  noise 
attracts  attention — a  procession  of  women  moving 
along  the  path  at  the  foot  of  the  declivity  in  front 
of  the  telegraph-station,  chanting  a  lamentation. 
Husayn  tells  me  it  is  the  funeral  of  the  chief 
villager's  wife.  At  this  point  the  road  begins  to 
pass  between  the  banks  of  a  slight  depression ;  the 
body  is  already  out  of  sight,  and  of  the  foremost 
women  I  can  see  little  more  than  the  head  and 
shoulders.  The  women  walk  two  by  two  with  un- 
covered faces,  but  shrouded  in  the  veils  which  form 
the  main  part  of  every  woman's  dress,  whether 
rich  or  poor.  Even  little  girls  begin  to  wear  them 
at  the  age  of  seven  or  eight  years,  so  nothing 
could  be  more  common;  yet  there  is  real  dignity 
in  the  sweep  of  these  ample  draperies.  There- 
fore, to  Western  eyes  which  associate  this  quality 
only  with  classical  or  tragic  compositions,  they 
suggest  images  of  grief.  In  fact,  they  do  resemble 
the  madonnas  and  mourners  of  our  pictures;  and 
I  personally  never  see  a  group  of  them  (half  stand- 
ing, half  kneeling)  without  being  reminded  of 
the  women  gathered  at  the  foot  of  the  cross  in 
the  Crucifixion  which  Tintoretto  painted  to  fill 
Venice  with  its  splendour. 

To-day  the  sorrowful  association  of  these 
mantles  is  apposite  as  their  wearers  file  past,  for 
the  most  part  draped  in  black — not  because  it 
is  mourning,  but  because  it  is  the  commonest 
colour.     The  women  now  seat  themselves  in  a 


358      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULP 

little  hollow  near  a  wall  beside  the  stream;  they 
are  grouped  about  the  to  me  invisible  body,  in 
tiers  ascending  the  acclivity.  Their  lamentation 
is  uninterrupted  but  is  not  as  might  be  expected 
a  shrill  wail;  it  is  a  low  ceaseless  murmur  like  the 
sound  of  birds  in  distress.  The  men — all  in  brown 
robes — are  seated  hardbj''  in  a  line  against  an 
umber  wall  of  clay,  in  their  black  bonnets  looking 
like  a  row  of  magi.  Occasionally  they  break  into 
a  chant,  whose  louder  tones  dominate  the  moan- 
ing of  the  women.  It  is  a  curious  scene  that  I 
leave  behind,  as  we  move  through  the  village  out 
into  the  valley  in  the  early  April  morning. 

To-day  it  is  possible  to  view  the  monotonous 
road  without  displeasure,  since  it  leads  me  toward 
the  tombs  of  the  Achaemenians  at  Naqsh-i-Rustam. 
I  have  hired  a  villager  to  show  me  the  shortest 
way,  and  after  two  hours'  journeying  leave  my 
caravan  to  proceed  to  Kinara  by  the  direct  road, 
while  Husayn,  Said,  and  I,  cross  the  river  after 
our  guide,  who  tucks  his  robes  up  in  his  girdle, 
precisely  as  the  royal  hunters  "girded  up  their 
loins"  centuries  ago.  The  path  skirts  a  high  bar- 
ren hill,  straight  across  which  Naqsh-i-Rustam 
lies;  but  to  reach  it  we  must  ride  round  the  hill. 
When  we  come  to  the  promontory  in  which  it 
terminates,  we  find  ourselves  in  a  wide  plain 
bordered  on  each  side  by  low  chains  of  rocky 
mountains  devoid  of  all  vegetation.  In  the  far 
distance  this  valley  opens  out  into  a  vast  plain 
where  fortified  villages  are  just  discernible. 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  359 

Unlike  the  country  through  which  we  have 
travelled  so  many  weary  days,  this  is  meadow- 
land,  tilled  in  places,  in  others  covered  with  weeds 
and  grass.  In  spots  some  white  flowering  plant 
waves  over  the  grass,  where  wild  poppies  dye  the 
corners  of  the  fields  with  scarlet.  Like  all  culti- 
vated ground  in  Persia,  this  valley  is  intersected 
in  every  direction  by  irrigation  canals — deep 
narrow  trenches  where  muddy  water  flows  swiftly 
at  the  bottom.  On  the  steep  banks  little  shrubs 
grow  among  masses  of  poppy,  waving  their  ver- 
milion cups  as  the  wind  runs  over  the  slender 
stalks.  On  the  right,  the  barren  mountain  rises 
abruptly  in  long  spurs  we  are  forced  to  skirt,  since 
the  canals  make  it  impossible  to  ride  across  coun- 
try. Great  white  clouds  have  long  been  driving 
across  the  sky,  and  have  now  gathered  in  ominous 
groups  above  the  mountains  which  bound  the 
horizon  far  across  the  plain  of  Mervdasht.  Beside 
the  road  there  is  a  nomad  camp:  black  tents 
around  which  women  move  in  figured  cottons  of 
the  most  brilliant  red.  A  few  girls  are  scattered 
over  the  plain,  standing  in  the  grass  or  kneeling 
on  the  yellow  earth  beside  the  trenches,  in  their 
gaudy  clothes  looking  like  a  larger  size  of  poppies. 

My  guide  said  that  to  the  tombs  it  was  only  a 
"little  farsakh^'  from  where  we  left  the  main  road, 
but  we  have  travelled  at  least  two  already.  Just 
when  I  am  beginning  to  lose  patience,  I  see  the 
top  of  a  square  tower-like  building  on  a  mound 
in  front  of  the  cliff;  it  must  be  the  "fire-temple" 


36o     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

built  in  front  cf  the  tombs.  At  present  every- 
thing that  is  not  covered  with  vegetation,  seems 
tinged  with  rosy  pink — bare  earth,  water-dykes, 
stony  roadside,  and  lofty  mountain.  The  perpen- 
dicular cliffs  tower  above  us,  like  the  discrowned 
battlements  of  some  fortress  once  built  by  Titans ; 
huge  fragments  strew  the  ground  at  their  base, 
and  their  red-brown  surfaces  are  seamed  and 
dented,  as  though  they  had  withstood  the  on- 
slaught of  Jove's  artillery.  Turning  a  last  spur 
the  tombs  lie  before  me. 

At  this  point  the  cliff  which  terminates  the 
lowest  range  of  mountains,  begins  to  sink  rapidly 
until  lost  in  the  plain  a  few  hundred  yards  to  the 
left — like  a  reef  running  into  the  sea.  The  rocky 
wall  here  swells  out  in  a  series  of  vast  bastions; 
indeed  the  whole  formation  has  a  strange  resem- 
blance to  the  work  of  gigantic  yet  human  beings. 
High  above  the  ground  on  the  more  level  surfaces 
between  the  sheer  projections,  two  intersecting 
rectangles — one  vertical,  the  other  horizontal — 
have  been  cut  so  as  to  form  a  vast  but  unequal 
cross.  The  horizontal  arm  is  narrower  and  more 
deeply  sunk  than  the  vertical.  The  door  to  the 
tomb  is  a  small  aperture,  like  a  black  spot,  in  the 
centre  of  the  cross.  Four  of  these  immense  de- 
signs stand  before  me;  the  first  one,  on  the  side 
of  the  spar  we  have  just  rounded,  being  almost 
at  right  angles  to  the  others.  A  sandy  ridge  some 
thirty  or  more  feet  high  runs  parallel  with  the 
cliff,  affording  a  splendid  view  of  the  tombs  from 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  361 

its  summit.  The  contrast  between  the  smooth- 
ness of  the  deeply  sunken  surfaces  and  the  rugged 
face  of  the  rock,  is  very  striking ;  and  the  vast  yet 
simple  conception  of  these  royal  tombs  is  deeply 
impressive.  Cut  in  a  mountain  side  high  in  the 
air,  truly  these  are  sepulchres  befitting  great  kings. 
Their  bodies  were  not  hidden  away  in  earth,  there 
to  become  the  loathsome  prey  of  corruption;  but 
were  embalmed  in  wax  and  precious  unguents, 
and  then  placed  on  high;  so  that  even  in  death 
these  imperial  monarchs  throned  it  aloft,  gazing 
out  with  sealed  eyes  across  the  plains  that  had 
once  been  in  life  the  scene  of  their  splendour. 

And  what  was  it  they  ordered  to  be  depicted 
on  the  smoothed  surfaces  of  their  last  resting- 
place,  high  on  the  beetling  cliff,  for  men  to  gaze 
up  at  during  untold  centuries?  In  low  relief, 
columns  with  capitals  of  bulls'  bodies,  support  an 
entablature;  above  which  a  row  of  men — repre- 
senting subject  races — is  carved,  carrying  a  plat- 
form with  another  row  of  captives;  these  uphold 
a  second  platform;  on  this  the  King  is  shown  in 
profile  standing  on  a  mound,  with  his  right  arm 
raised  in  adoration  before  the  symbol  of  Ahura- 
mazda — the  upper  half  of  a  majestic  figure  rising 
from  the  emblem  of  eternity  between  wings  float- 
ing in  space.  The  scene  is  noble,  and  even  to-day 
that  curious  symbol  of  Divinity  all  but  arouses 
awe.  On  every  tomb,  the  same  figures:  high  on 
the  polished  stone,  just  beneath  the  deep  over- 
hang of   the  crags,   the  King  alone  with   God. 


362      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

These  ancient  peoples,  whose  shnpler  natures 
looked  on  the  world  with  fresher  eyes,  had  in 
truth  a  peculiar  sense  of  the  Divine,  that  we  have 
utterly  lost The  large  Sasanian  bas- 
reliefs  carved  on  the  face  of  the  cliffs  some  seven 
centuries  later,  are  curious  and — in  the  case  of 
ShapQr  and  the  captive  Emperor  Valerian — not 
inexpressive;  yet  they  fail  to  impress  as  do  the 
great  sunken  surfaces  above.  The  colossal  figures 
are  perhaps  more  realistic  than  the  earlier  and 
more  conventionalised  work;  but  they  are  bar- 
baric, and  lack  the  sincerity  and  stiff  grace  of 
primitive  sculpture,  without  attaining  beauty  of 
form.  Hewn  haphazard  in  the  rock  near  the 
ground,  they  have  no  plan,  form  no  part  of  a  com- 
position, and  are  artistically  altogether  inferior 
to  the  Achaemenian  carvings.  The  real  inferiority 
is,  however,  mental;  I  feel  that  the  men  who 
created  these  bulky  kings  and  captives,  were 
spiritually  barbarians  compared  with  those  who 
had  that  conventional  but  significant  vision  of  a 
king  and  his  God,  which  draws  my  eyes  upward. 

I  am  determined  not  to  leave  without  visiting 
the  tomb  of  Darius  Hystaspes — no  easy  task, 
since  the  entrance  lies  more  than  a  hundred  feet 
above  the  ground,  and  the  surfaces  of  the  hewn 
rock  are  sheer  and  smooth.  However,  villagers 
or  nomads — I  know  not  which — are  standing 
about  prepared  for  the  advent  of  a  curious  for- 
eigner, and  ready  to  haul  me  up  with  ropes. 
After  tucking  up  the  skirts  of  their  robes,  by  some 


The  Cliff-Hewn  Tombs  of  the  Achaemenian  Kings,  Nagsh-i-Rustam 
The  four  sunken  crosses  are  tombs;  the  fifth  is  hidden 


■^mn 


'•^\  f  •.. 


m 


^^'< 


The  First  Tomb,  Nagsh-i-Rustam 


f^^-^-^ 


The  Tomb  of  Darius  Hystaspes,  Nagsh-i-Rustam 
The  bas-reliefs  below  the  tombs  are  Sasanian  work 


Sasanian  Sculptures,  Nagsh-i-Rustam 
To  the  left,  Shahpur  receiving  the  conquered  Roman  Emperor,  Valerian 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  363 

feat  of  fly-like  agility  they  manage  to  climb  the 
perpendicular  rock  with  bare  feet  and  hands. 
Two  stand  on  the  lower  platform,  two  on  the 
upper  at  the  level  of  the  entrance ;  they  then  drop 
ropes  which  are  tied  under  my  arms,  and  pull 
me  up  to  the  first  platform.  Here  another  set  of 
ropes  is  attached,  and  up  I  go  a  second  time. 
Hanging  in  space,  banging  against  the  rocks  like 
a  ball,  I  am  vividl}''  reminded  of  the  fate  which 
here  overtook  the  aged  parents  of  Darius.  Desir- 
ous of  viewing  the  tomb  on  its  completion,  they 
were  drawn  up  by  magi  stationed  on  the  summit 
of  the  cliff;  frightened — legend  says — by  a  serpent, 
they  let  go  the  ropes,  and  the  poor  old  people  were 
dashed  to  death.  Swaying  on  a  rope,  the  idea 
that  after  all  these  centuries  my  end  would  have 
an  august  precedent,  does  not  make  the  prospect 
more  alluring.  However,  I  am  dragged  up  safely 
and  hauled  over  the  edge  by  the  hands  of  my  very 
dirty  magi;  then  I  crawl  dizzily  along  a  narrow 
ledge  and  enter  the  tomb  by  a  small  door  once 
closed  by  slabs  of  stone. 

I  find  myself  in  a  narrow  but  lofty  cell,  in  plan 
a  rectangle  with  the  longer  side  parallel  to  the 
cliff;  out  of  this  three  deep  recesses  open,  all  of 
them,  with  receptacles  for  bodies — rude  sarco- 
phagi cut  in  the  solid  rock.  The  lids  are  cracked 
or  lost,  and  everything  is  covered  with  dirt  and 
the  dung  of  birds.  Yet  this  defiled  chamber, 
whence  I  gaze  out  over  the  wide  plain  far  below, 
once  held  the  body  of  the  King  of  Kings ;  and  here 


364     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

his  favourite  eunuch  passed  seven  years  of  faith- 
ful sorrow  beside  the  royal  dead.  These  sweating 
walls  and  filthy  floors  must  once  have  been  hidden 
behind  costly  stuffs,  and  the  whole  tomb  filled 
with  gold  and  objects  of  price  piled  about  the 
embalmed  majesty  of  Darius.  Now  it  is  empty, 
visited  only  by  villagers  or  a  particularly  curious 
foreigner!  "Dust  and  ashes"  once  again;  the 
thought  pursues  one  in  this  country,  Uke  that 
iteration  of  a  single  note  which  maddens  musicians 
when  growing  deaf. 

After  reaching  the  ground  in  safety,  I  visit  the 
detached  tower  which  stands  in  front  of  the  cliffs. 
Some  archaeologists  think  it  a  tomb,  others  a  fire- 
temple;  none  can  prove  their  theory,  so  there  is 
choice  for  all.  To-day  it  is  full  of  natives,  eating 
and  smoking  long  qalyuns,  quite  unconscious  of  all 
the  disputes  waged  about  their  shelter.  Turning 
the  point  where  the  rock  loses  itself  in  the  plain, 
I  come  upon  the  two  famous  fire-altars — with  a 
start  of  surprise.  I  had  expected  them  to  be 
much  larger  and  placed  higher  up;  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  they  are  small  and  quite  close  to  the  ground. 
Nevertheless,  these  rough-hewn  and  almost  pre- 
historic altars,  where  the  sacred  fire  once  leaped 
toward  the  pellucid  Iranian  sky,  are — as  relics 
of  a  lost  civilisation — strangely  impressive.  Not 
far  across  the  plain  rises  an  isolated  mountain  of 
curious  form,  on  whose  flat  upper  surface  the 
Divinity  might  easily  be  conceived  as  descending 
centuries  and  centuries  ago.     The  priest  of  Zara- 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  365 

thustra  must,  as  he  tended  the  consecrated  flame, 
have  looked  out — perhaps  at  dawn — over  the 
gathered  heads  of  worshippers  toward  this  very 
mountain-top;  the  thought  is  stirring,  as  I  stand 
here  beside  these  long  abandoned  altars,  the  last 
vestiges  of  a  forgotten  but  noble  form  of  adoration. 
Despite  previous  and  present  enquiries,  I  am 
quite  unable  to  discover  how  the  different  ruins 
are  located  on  the  plain  of  Mervdasht.  All  the 
information  to  be  extracted  from  my  guide  through 
Husayn  the  useless,  is  that  Naqsh-i-Rajab  and 
its  Sasanian  sculptures  are  situated  on  the  hill- 
side across  the  plain.  The  distance  in  a  straight 
line  is  short;  but  the  dykes  and  streams  inter- 
secting the  plain  on  all  sides,  force  us  to  make  a 
long  detour.  Even  so,  we  have  to  splash  across 
the  smaller  conduits,  where  the  animals  stumble 
and  nearly  drop  us  in  the  water.  After  fording  a 
swift  river,  deep  enough  to  reach  the  stirrups,  the 
ruins  of  Persepolis  appear  suddenly  around  a  spur 
of  the  hills.  I  had  thought  it  far  away  on  the 
further  side  of  the  plain,  so  am  startled  on  seeing 
an  immense  platform  covered  by  a  forest  of  shat- 
tered columns,  jutting  out  from  the  mountain  in 
the  distance;  for  a  few  seconds  I  hardly  realize 

what  it  is Finally  we  reach  the  rocky 

hillside  and  discover  the  cleft  known  as  Naqsh-i- 
Rajab.  It  is  nothing  more  than  a  wide  fissure 
running  back  into  the  hill  some  fifty  yards  or  more; 
here  three  large  surfaces  were  in  Sasanian  days 
smoothed   on   the   rough   sides   of   the   rock — in 


366     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

places  overhanging  the  ground — and  covered  with 
gigantic  figures  in  high  reUef.  They  represent 
the  King  at  the  head  of  troops,  or  receiving  the 
crown  from  the  hands  of  God;  but  even  more 
curious  than  the  sculptures  themselves,  is  the 
thought — how  did  they  come  to  be  placed  here  ? 
What  were  the  people  who  wrought  them?  Why 
did  they  carve  them  in  this  crevice,  near  which 
apparently  no  city  ever  was?  How  were  kings 
honoured  by  images  so  remotely  placed?  With 
what  rites  did  men  come  here?  and  what  were  their 
feelings  when  they  gazed  on  the  forms  at  whose 
weather-worn  remnants  I  am  now  looking?  These 
queries  are  none  the  less  insistent,  because  no 
archaeologist  can  ever  give  me  their  answer. 

The  clouds  have  long  been  threatening  rain; 
when  we  ride  away,  the  sky  is  covered  with  a 
leaden  shroud  and  the  light  pallid — though  it  is 
only  three  o'clock.  A  wild  wind  blows  across  the 
now  bleak  plains,  seeming  to  strike  with  separate 
blows  every  nerve  in  the  body.  When  the  extrem- 
ity of  the  hills  bounding  the  valley  has  been 
rounded,  Persepolis  comes  into  sight  again,  in  this 
light  sombre  as  a  wreck.  I  dismount  directly 
under  the  terrace;  it  towers  over  me,  a  wall 
without  break  or  decoration,  except  for  the  recess 
in  which  the  immense  flight  of  stairs  ascends.  It 
is  built  of  enormous  blocks  of  stone ;  at  the  comers 
and  over  the  stairway,  green  shrubs  grow  out 
between  the  joints,  creating  a  romantic  drapery 
Piranesi  would  have  loved.    There  is  nothing  but 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  367 

a  long  wall  without  ornament  of  any  sort;  yet  its 
vast  scale  and  absolute  simplicity  make  it  one 
of  the  most  impressive  monuments  I  have  ever 
beheld.  The  flights  of  stairs  are  so  broad  and  so 
gradually  inclined,  they  must  have  been  designed 
for  the  stately  progress  of  the  king  in  inviolable 
solitude,  preceded  by  the  splendours  of  the  long- 
stoled  priests,  and  of — 

"The  warlike  soldiers  and  the  gentlemen, 
That  heretofore  have  filled  Persepolis 
With  Afric  captains  taken  in  the  field, 
Whose  ransom  made  them  march  in  coats  of  gold, 
With  costly  jewels  hanging  at  their  ears. 
And  shining  stones  upon  their  lofty  crests." 

After  climbing  the  now  neglected  steps,  I  find 
myself  on  an  immense  platform  from  which  the 
hillside  slopes  backward.  Below  the  grey  sky, 
storm  clouds  of  deep  violet  and  black  are  rushing 
across  the  strange  forms  of  the  distant  mountains ; 
occasionally  when  they  lessen,  the  sun  struggles  to 
break  through,  Hghting  the  ruins  with  a  fugitive 
pallor.  Directly  in  front  of  me  stands  the  Portico 
of  Xerxes,  where  gigantic  figures — with  a  human 
head,  the  body  of  a  lion,  and  the  wings  of  a  bird — 
keep  guard  at  the  portals  of  the  dead.  The  heads 
and  breasts  of  these  apocalyptic  creatures  are 
carved  on  the  narrow  face  of  the  walls,  their  flanks 
on  the  sides,  up  which  their  wings  sweep  grandly; 
so  the  mass  of  stone  seems  rather  to  grow  out  of, 
than  to  be  supported  by,  these  awesome  beasts. 


368     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

Even  to-day  when  half  in  ruin  and  defaced  by 
travellers'  inscriptions  (which  delighted  Lord 
Curzon),  it  is  impossible  to  view  unmoved  these 
splendid  images,  where  the  three  realms  of  man, 
beast,  and  bird,  seem  united  in  quasi-divinity. 
When  the  majesty  of  Darius  or  Xerxes  appeared 
between  their  undiminished  glory,  the  combined 
impressiveness  of  man  and  masonry'  must  have 
struck  beholders  dumb.  To  the  right  rise  the 
fragments  of  the  great  Hall  of  Xerxes :  a  decimated 
forest  of  slightly  golden  columns  despoiled  of 
capitals,  entablature,  and  roof.  Beyond  and  on 
slightly  higher  ground,  are  the  ruined  palaces  of 
Darius  and  Xerxes — two  groups  of  stone  doors  and 
windows  now  blackened,  looking  in  miniature 
like  Egyptian  pylons  crowded  together.  Behind 
everything,  a  steep  acclivity  of  bare  rock,  where 
three  tombs — like  but  less  impressive  than  those 
at  Naqsh-i-Rustam — have  been  hewn.  A  band 
of  Persian  holiday-makers  from  the  neighbouring 
villages  and  even  from  Shiraz,  fills  the  ruins  of 
Persepolis;  their  horses  paw  the  stones  in  the 
Palace  of  Xerxes,  and  the  whole  of  Takht-i- 
Jamshid  (as  Persians  call  this  spot)  resoimds 
with  the  shouts  of  men  and  the  cries  of  women 
and  children.     Truly — 

"They  say  the  Lion  and  the  Lizard  keep 
The  Courts  where  Jamshyd  gloried  and  drank  deep: 
And  Bahram,  that  great  Hunter — the  Wild  Ass 
Stamps  o'er  his  head,  but  cannot  break  his  sleep." 


-Iwi* 


■^^"!^ 


The  Archaeologist's  Despair 
So-called  Fire  Temple,  Nagsh-i-Rustam 


Sasanian  Sculptures  near  the  End  of  the  Cliff,  Nagsh-i-Rustam 


"••^^g^ 


iBfllidSfiliSitti 


Fording  a  Stream  on  the  Way  to  Persepolis,  Plain  of  Mervdasht 


^ 


^ 


Zordastrian  Fire  Altars,  Nagsh-i-Rustam 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  369 

On  arriving,  I  regretted  the  loveliness  which 
sunlight  might  give  these  famous  stones;  now  as 
I  look  out  over  the  mournful  plain  to  the  rack  of 
inky  cloud  above  the  mountains,  this  gloom  and 
raging  wind  seem  a  more  fitting  background 
against  which  to  view  all  that  remains  of 

"The  Palace  that  to  Heav'n  his  pillars  threw, 
And  Kings  the  forehead  on  his  threshold  drew." 

At  first,  fatigue,  nerves  unstrung  by  the  wind, 
and  the  discordant  sounds  of  holiday-making, 
prevented  my  being  as  much  impressed  as  I  had 
expected.  Even  now  I  am  not  thrilled  as  I  have 
been  in  other  places,  where  art  and  history  com- 
bine in  a  manner  no  imagination  can  resist;  yet 
I  find  that  in  strolling  among  the  shattered  marbles, 
one  magnificent  impression  is  borne  in  upon  me 
more  and  more  strongly.  It  is  the  idea  of  what 
"divinity  doth  hedge  a  king."  If  man  ever  de- 
vised a  perfect  setting  for  royalty,  above  all  for 
royalty  in  the  days  when  it  was  all  but  divine, 
it  was  this  group  of  fallen  stones.  Everywhere  are 
carvings  of  the  King,  forming  practically  the 
only  decoration  in  all  Persepolis.  Even  the 
placing  of  these  images  is  peculiar;  they  are  all  on 
the  reveal  of  doors  and  windows,  which  are  very 
deep — sometimes  over  four  feet.  They  are  in 
bas-relief  and  with  figures  in  profile  only.  Al- 
though too  numerous  to  count,  all  are — on  vary- 
ing scales — reproductions  of  a  few  themes.  The 
24 


370     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

King,  with  curled  beard  and  locks,  in  his  hands  a 
staff  and  lotus-wand,  is  followed  by  two  atten- 
dants; one  holds  a  parasol  over  the  royal  person, 
and  the  other  carries  with  uplifted  arms  a  handle 
with  a  horse's  tail  curving  over  the  King's  crown ; 
often  the  symbol  of  Ahuramazda  floats  above  the 
parasol.  Elsewhere  rows  of  subjugated  warriors 
carrying  platforms,  rise  from  the  bottom  of  the 
sculpture,  tier  upon  tier,  until  only  just  enough 
room  remains  to  depict  the  King  enthroned 
beneath  the  Egyptian  emblem  of  eternity,  with 
attendants  behind  the  lofty  throne  foot-stool. 
Or  again  the  King  is  engaged  in  single  combat 
with  a  lion  standing  on  its  hind  legs  and  about 
to  claw  the  royal  huntsman,  when  he  drives  his 
sword  to  the  hilt  in  the  belly  of  the  beast.  The 
King  is  always  represented  on  a  much  larger  scale 
than  other  figures,  a  primitive  but  not  ineffectual 
convention  to  suggest  his  more  than  human  gran- 
deur. As  far  as  I  can  see  there  is  no  attempt  to 
portray  Darius  or  Xerxes  or  any  other  individual; 
all  seem  to  be  representations  of  the  King — sym- 
bols of  something  more  than  man.  The  repetition 
of  these  few  scenes  to  decorate  this  entire  terrace 
of  palaces,  may  seem  monotonous;  but  there  can 
be  no  doubt  that  these  ancient  artists  understood 
the  tremendous  effect  of  simpHcity,  and  of  one 
idea  deliberately  reproduced  to  the  exclusion  of 
all  else. 

What  must  not  have  been  the  impression  made 
on  all  who  traversed  these  lofty  and  open  halls.'* 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  371 

Wherever  he  moved,  the  sovereign  was  confronted 
with  images  of  his  glory;  and  his  followers — how- 
ever accustomed  to  the  sight — could  not  have 
been  other  than  affected  by  the  incessant  recur- 
rence of  signs  proclaiming  the  sacrosanct  majesty 
of  him  they  served.  In  such  a  setting,  these 
old-time  rulers  must  have  known  sensations  of 
omnipotence  and  the  possession  of  divine  nature 
but  slightly  veiled,  such  as  modern  men  cannot  in 
their  wildest  imaginings  conceive.  They  must 
indeed  have  exclaimed : — 

"Is  it  not  passing  brave  to  be  a  King, 
And  ride  in  triumph  through  Persepolis? 
A  god  is  not  so  glorious  as  a  King. 
I  think  the  pleasure  they  enjoy  in  Heaven, 
Cannot  compare  with  kingly  joys  on  earth." 

Think  what  a  Darius  or  a  Xerxes  must  have  felt, 
as  he  throned  it  on  high  at  the  end  of  so  vast  an 
audience-hall!  Robed  in  all  that  is  delicate  and 
splendid,  wearing — 

"...  A  crown  enchased  with  pearl  and  gold, 
Whose  virtues  carry  with  it  life  and  death," 

dust  of  gold  sprinkled  on  his  long  locks  and  curled 
beard;  he  is  seated  aloft  on  a  throne  of  precious 
stones,  his  sandalled  and  bejewelled  feet  resting 
on  a  foot-stool.  Princely  attendants  bearing  the 
insignia  of  his  might,  hold  above  him  the  imperial 
parasol.  Around  him  is  a  forest  of  tall  fluted 
shafts  of  marble,  where  on  every  capital  two  bulls 


372      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

support  an  inlaid  ceiling  of  perfumed  cedar. 
Great  hangings  preciously  embroidered  curtain 
off  the  outer  world,  but  at  the  end  leave  a  clear 
view  across  the  plains  of  Mervdasht.  There  they 
stretch,  vast  expanses  of  meadowy  ground,  bounded 
far  off  by  low  ranges  of  barren  rock ;  a  featureless 
scene,  but  in  its  wide  sweep  not  without  grandeur ; 
above  all,  one  ideal  for  its  purpose,  since  it  offers 
no  dominant  mass  of  mountains  or  other  feature, 
which  might  suggest  to  the  King  the  existence  of 
powers  mightier  that  he.  Enthroned  above 
everyone,  the  King  as  he  looks  through  the  splen- 
did hall,  out  across  the  benign  earth,  can  see 
nothing  he  may  not  command — unless  it  be  that 
Ahuramazda,  whose  winged  symbol  floats  above 
him.  And  in  his  heart  of  hearts,  he  probably 
says  to  himself:  "What  is  Ahuramazda  to  me?" 

It  is  said  that  even  so  mean  a  measure 

of  absolute  power  as  man  can  attain,  brings  with 
it  satiety;  surely  in  these  hieratic  sovereigns, 
weariness  of  all  things  must  at  times  have  been 
compensated  by  an  almost  divine  dilation  of 
thought  and  feeling,  such  as  can  no  longer  fall 
to  the  lot  of  any  man. 

Think  too  of  what  must  have  been  in  another 
order,  the  emotions  of  a  man  for  the  first  time 
admitted  in  these  halls  to  the  presence  of  the  King 
of  Kings!  After  crossing  the  plains,  and  mount- 
ing the  wide  stairs  between  rows  of  richly  garbed 
attendants;  he  passes  through  the  awe-inspiring 
portico  to  find  himself  in  the  consecrated  precinct, 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  373 

gazing  at  the  King  enshrined  like  an  idol  at  the 
end  of  columnar  vistas.  He  must  indeed  have 
felt  awe,  and  that  too  is  uplifting;  for  like  love, 
terror,  or  any  violent  emotion,  it  expands  the 
whole  being,  crowding  into  a  few  seconds  an 
amplitude  of  feeling  an  entire  life  might  otherwise 
not  give.  This  man  may  well  be  envied — for  awe 
is  a  sensation  that  has  practically  passed  from  our 
existence  to-day.  Even  when  we  believe  in  the 
Divine,  we  no  longer  expect  to  find  it  incarnate 
or  even  manifest.  Nor  can  nature  give  us  the 
sensation;  she  may  terrify  or  crush  us,  but — 
despite  mystery  still  inscrutable — we  have  pierced 
too  many  secrets  to  feel  the  dread  that  is  aroused 
by  things  too  lofty  to  grasp.  As  for  man,  how- 
ever much  we  may  love  or  revere  him,  what 
human  being  fills  us  with  awe  to-day?  This 
feeling,  aroused  by  the  presence  of  something 
thought  more  than  human,  has  been  lost  like 
many  others  known  to  our  mysterious  forbears; 
they  were  paid  for  by  the  misery  of  millions,  but 
at  moments  the  privileged  among  these  ancient 
races  must  have  achieved  a  particular  form  of 
perfection  we  shall  never  see.  Their  lives  must, 
however,  have  been  a  curious  mixture  of  splendour 
and  discomfort ;  each  of  these  palaces  (where  kings 
dwelt)  is  no  more  than  a  single  room  surrounded 
by  porticos,  through  which  the  living  sovereigns 
might  see  the  tombs  of  those  who  went  before. 
This  vast  terrace  is  really  nothing  more  than  one 
palace  on  a  scale  perhaps  never  surpassed.     The 


374      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

residence   of   the   courtiers   and   the   lodging   of 
followers  must  have  been  elsewhere. 

Riding  across  the  plains  to  Kinara,  as  darkness 
falls  and  the  storm  descends  on  the  mountains, 
at  whose  foot  lie  the  all-overseeing  tombs  o£  the 
Achaemenians,  I  turn  to  look  for  the  last  time  at 
the  mighty  but  discrowned  pillars  standing  on  the 
terrace  of  Persepolis.  As  I  move  away,  I  realise 
that  the  spot  has  stirred  me  far  more  deeply  than 
I  at  first  suspected.  While  there,  I  thought  but 
little  about  Alexander,  my  mind  being  too  busy 
with  the  magnificent  monarchs  who  built  this 
unique  abode.  Riding  between  wind-rippled  fields 
of  grain,  I  cannot  help  thinking  how  the  con- 
queror, whom  we  imagine  to  have  been  a  young 
Apollo,  must — at  some  hours — have  been  rather 
a  besotted  vandal.  It  is  true  that  with  too  fine 
a  sensibility  he  could  never  have  been  a  great 
captain;  still,  I  should  rather  have  had  him  leave 
a  corner  of  the  world  unconquered  than  burn  the 
glories  of  Persepolis. 


April  18*^ 
Crossing  the  plain  of  Mervdasht  from  Kinara 
to  rejoin  the  main  road  from  Sivand  to  Shiraz, 
Persepolis  on  its  throne  and  Naqsh-i-Rustam 
are  visible  far  across  the  meadows.  At  first  there 
is  sun,  but  soon  the  sky  grows  grey  and  wind  rises, 
striking  us  with  wild  gusts.  Before  long  we  reach 
a  muddy  stream,  crawling  through  a  featureless 


Sasanian  Cliflf  Sculpture,  Nagsh-i-Rajab 
The  cliff  in  the  distance  is  Nagsh-i-Rustam  on  the  other  side  of  the  plain  of  Mervdasht 


if 


Ruins  of  Persepolis 
"  The  Palace  That  to  Heav'n  His  Pillars  Thier" 


The  Portico  of  Xerxes,  Persepolis 


Palace  of  Darius,  Persepolis 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  375 

country  between  banks  of  clay  without  trees  or 
shrubs;  it  is  spanned  by  a  high  stone  bridge,  now 
so  ruinous  that  to  cross  it  is  far  from  pleasant. 
This  is  the  river  Bandamir — made  famous  by 
Moore's  vulgar  verses : 

"There's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendameer's  stream 
And  the  nightingale  sings  round  it  all  the  day  long." 

Had  he  ever  seen  the  spot,  his  anapaestic  sentimen- 
tality would  have  received  a  shock.  Then  we 
traverse  marsh-land  on  the  remnants  of  an  old 
road  of  broken  stone,  and  after  rounding  a  hill, 
come  in  sight  of  Zarghan.  On  the  outskirts  are 
curious  wells  built  on  the  same  principle  as  those 
in'  the  Algerian  M'zab;  only,  here  mules  and  oxen 
are  used  to  draw  the  water  in  place  of  camels. 
This  coincidence  is  very  striking  in  countries  so 
unrelated. 

I  find  a  lodging  in  an  old  house  that  must  once 
have  been  a  master-work.  With  the  outer  world 
the  only  communication  is  through  the  entrance 
gates.  The  house  surrounds  a  large  court,  with 
water  tanks  and  what  once  were  flower-beds;  it 
is  divided  into  two  parts,  on  the  one  side  an  edi- 
fice of  two  stories;  on  the  other  of  only  one.  The 
walls  are  of  dried  clay  framed  and  patterned  with 
white  stucco ;  large  areas  around  the  window  open- 
ings are  filled  with  screens  of  pierced  wood,  beau- 
tifully designed  and  executed.  My  room  must 
once  have  been  delightful ;  it  is  covered  with  stucco 


376     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

ornamentation  painted  in  bright  colours;  in  the 
wall-recesses  there  is  honeycomb  vaulting,  above 
pictures  of  little  birds  perched  on  stiff  bouquets; 
colour,  gold,  and  carving,  cover  all  the  surfaces. 
Now  everything  is  ruin — the  doors  open  when  I 
arrived,  filth  an  inch  deep  on  the  floors,  birds  and 
cats  the  only  inhabitants.  Sights  such  as  these 
are  what  make  travel  so  distressing  here.  Just 
because  Persia  was  once  highly  civilised  and  filled 
with  works  of  art,  its  ruin  and  filth  are  to-day 
more  painful  to  see  than  any  sight  in  countries 
always  barbarous.  The  little  that  is  left  to-day, 
she  neglects  or  destroys — indifferent  to  all  that 
once  formed  her  glory. 


April  I9*^ 
To-day's  is  the  last  stage  between  me  and  Shiraz, 
— a  very  pleasant  thought.  On  leaving  Zarghan 
there  is  a  pretty  view  of  the  town  in  the  chill 
morning  light.  At  the  foot  of  a  great  cliff,  houses 
of  brownish  clay — much  the  colour  of  the  rock 
towering  above — are  clustered,  rising  in  tiers  one 
above  the  other,  with  little  towers  and  tiny  loggie, 
as  though  the  inhabitants  were  trjdng  to  imitate 
an  Italian  hill-town.  Above  the  roofs  two  cy- 
presses rise — the  first  I  have  seen  in  Persia.  The 
road  soon  begins  to  climb  between  barren  hills, 
green  and  brown  with  stains  of  orange;  then  de- 
scends suddenly  to  cross  a  plain,  and  once  more 
ascends  an  almost  perpendicular  hill  strewn  with 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  377 

boulders,  up  which  the  animals  are  forced  to 
scramble,  panting  loudly.  Far  to  the  right  a 
mountain  dominates  the  scene  with  an  almost 
purple  cliff.  Traffic  on  the  heretofore  deserted 
road,  shows  that  we  are  approaching  a  large  city; 
camels  pass  in  caravans  or  graze  the  hillside,  whilst 
their  bales  strew  the  ground;  bands  of  men  pass 
on  foot,  carrying  long  sticks;  men,  women,  and 
children,  troop  by  on  mules  and  donkeys.  We 
now  begin  to  descend  gradually  but  steadily; 
beside  the  road  a  clear  runnel  dashes  along  between 
tiny  dykes,  like  all  the  irrigation  conduits  I  have 
seen ;  yet  this  is  the  brook  of  which  Hafiz  wrote : — 

"For  sure,  in  all  the  enchanted  ground 
Of  Paradise,  there  are  not  found, 
The  fountain  brinks  of  Rukhnabad." 

After  many  windings  we  turn  the  shoulder  of 
an  eminence,  and  Shiraz  lies  before  me  in  the  V- 
shaped  opening  between  the  hills  we  are  now  de- 
scending. In  the  foreground  a  gateway  bars  the 
valley;  thence  a  broad  avenue  leads  toward  the 
city — a  flat  expanse  of  pinkish-brown  only  broken 
by  tapering  cypress-trees  and  one  earthen  dome. 
The  green  plain  encircles  it,  spreading  out  to  the 
barren  mountains  that  hem  it  in  like  a  bowl.  The 
colours  are  charming,  but  lack  the  lovely  contrast 
which  in  Algeria  the  white  houses  make  with 
vegetation.  It  is  a  pretty  but  rather  featureless 
scene;  yet  this  is  the  famous  first  view  of  Sa'di's 


378     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

Shiraz,  reputed  so  beautiful  as  to  force  all  travel- 
lers to  halt  and  cry  involuntarily:  "AUaha 
Akbar!" — God  is  Great!  To  this  day  it  goes  by 
the  name  of  the  Tang-i-Allaha  Alcbar.  Like  all 
Persia,  it  is  disappointing.  Either  the  city  must 
in  old  days  have  been  more  beautiful — which  is 
probable — or  else  it  gained  its  renown  by  contrast 
with  the  desolate  country  amid  which  it  lies. 

Riding  through  the  gateway  and  out  along  the 
broad  highway,  trees  in  fresh  foliage  wave  over 
us,  while  beneath  their  shade  the  Ruknabad  leaps 
down  the  slope  in  tiny  cascades.  Some  such  spot 
as  this,  in  his  time  perhaps  a  garden-side,  Hafiz 
must  have  had  in  mind  when  he  wrote  of  the  brook. 
Only  a  short  time  since,  this  avenue  was  lined  with 
secular  cypress-trees;  not  having  received  their 
pay,  the  troops  felled  them  to  show  their  dissatis- 
faction and  make  firewood !  Now  it  is  white  and 
without  shade.  Fortunately  the  air  is  balmy, 
and  out  of  the  walled  gardens  other  cypresses  still 
rear  their  lustrous  cones,  so  dark  a  green  as  to 
seem  black.  Suddenly  two  neat  cavalrymen  in 
uniform  ride  up,  salute,  and  speak  in  excellent 
English;  they  have  been  sent  by  my  host  that  is 
to  be.  Colonel  B.  A  few  moments  later  he  gallops 
up  himself;  for  some  unknowni  reason,  I  had  been 
expecting  a  man  of  middle-age  with  a  black  beard, 
so  it  is  a  great  surprise  to  see  a  very  smart  young 
officer.  After  skirting  the  town,  we  reach  his 
house — a  large  white  building  with  a  high  colon- 
nade at  the  back  of  a  lovely  garden — where  his 


ISFAHAN  TO  SHIRAZ  379 

charming  wife  and  mother-in-law  are  waiting  to 
receive  us.  My  room  is  filled  with  fragrant  yellow 
Marechal  Niel  roses,  and  off  it  there  is  a  bath- 
room with  running  water — I  think  the  only  one 
in  all  Persia.  After  fourteen  solitary  days  spent 
in  crawling  across  barren  uplands,  to  find  myself 
the  recipient  of  my  countrymen's  kind  hospitality, 
is  more  than  pleasant. 


TEC  -  ART  STUDIOS,  Inc. 


Palace  of  Xerxes,  Persepolis 
The  wild  ass  stamps  over  his  head  " 


Mhd. 


The  Audience  Hall  of  Xerxes  and  the  Plain  of  Mervdasht  in  a  Storm,  Persepolis 


Effigy  of  the  King,  Persepolis 
Is  it  not  passing  brave  to  be  a  king  ?  " 


A  Persian  Plough,  Plain  of  Mervdasht 


VI 

shirAz  to  bushir 


381 


VI 

SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR 

April  20*^ 
This  morning  Colonel  B.  takes  me  to  call  on 
the  Governor  of  Pars.  After  driving  through 
narrow  and  squalid  streets,  we  stop  at  the 
gateway  of  the  great  regent,  Karim  Khan's 
palace.  We  first  enter  a  large  enclosure,  which 
green  trees  fill  with  shade,  while  wild  poppies 
fleck  the  ground  with  vermilion  spots.  In  the 
centre  there  is  a  small  octagonal  building  of 
yellow  brick,  once  the  tomb  of  Karim  Khan,  now 
the  headquarters  of  the  Army  of  Pars.  A  long 
narrow  tank  stretches  in  front  of  each  of  the  four 
principal  sides,  its  water  stagnant,  and  all  its  jets 
now  stopped.  A  frieze  of  exquisite  tiles  runs 
round  the  top  of  the  building;  the  spandrels  are 
also  filled  with  brilliant  tiling,  where  tiny  figures 
are  depicted  hunting.  The  Shah  is  seated  cross- 
legged  on  a  low  platform,  with  a  bird  perched  on 
the  railing;  his  huntsmen  are  pursuing  various 
animals,  including  antlered  stags,  blue  elephants, 
and  bright  yellow  rhinoceroses.     The  colours — • 

383 


384     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

detached  against  a  white  background — are  as 
fresh  as  if  made  but  yesterday,  and  have  a  depth 
and  brilliance  no  workman  could  to-day  produce. 
Inside  the  building  a  pool  of  water  fills  the  spot 
where  the  tomb  once  stood;  over  it  there  is  an 
extraordinary  honeycomb  vault,  silver- white  with 
gilt  edges,  painted  with  birds,  and  vines,  and 
flowers. 

On  one  side  of  the  court  is  the  royal  audience 
hall,  a  loggia  overlooking  the  gardens.  A  high 
band  of  Yazd  marble,  painted  with  landscapes 
and  other  patterns,  forms  a  dado;  walls  and  col- 
umns are  covered  with  mirror- work,  and  the  ceil- 
ing is  elaborately  painted.  In  their  prime  these 
halls  of  audience  raised  a  few  feet  above  the  ground 
must  have  been  a  splendid  sight  when  the  sovereign 
sat  enthroned,  and  every  facet  reflected  the  glint 
of  jewels  and  the  thousand  hues  of  brocade,  as 
the  courtiers  ranged  themselves  around  him;  to- 
day these  tarnished  bits  of  glass  and  shabby  colours 
seem  puerile  in  their  decay. 

From  here  we  enter  an  inner  court  where  cypress 
and  orange-trees  grow.  The  walls  and  recessed 
audience-halls  are  crumbling;  roofs  and  wood- 
work are  decayed  and  half -fallen;  sordid  ruin 
haunts  even  the  palace  of  the  Governor  of  Fars. 
One  wall  is  decorated  with  the  finest  Persian  tiles 
I  have  ever  seen :  on  a  white  ground,  figures  nearly 
life-size  among  conventional  flowers.  Lovely 
yellows  are  conspicuous,  but  above  all  masses 
of  that  wonderful  rose-purple  we  see  on  Chinese 


SHfRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  385 

porcelains.  The  colours  are  brilliant  yet  harmo- 
nious, and  rich  as  those  in  ancient  enamel.  The 
Governor  lives  in  a  modem  building  in  the  centre 
of  the  court.  The  room  in  which  he  receives  us, 
is  filled  with  European  furniture  in  bad  taste; 
the  Persians  do  not  seem  to  have  even  that  saving 
grace,  an  appreciation  of  their  past.  So  far  I  have 
not  seen  the  smallest  example  of  the  art,  which  we 
in  Europe  so  greatly  admire.  The  Governor  is  an 
elderly  man,  very  courteous,  but  with  that  sad  yet 
deceitful  expression  about  the  drooping  comers 
of  the  mouth,  which  I  have  noticed  on  so  many 
Persian  faces.  He  has  lived  in  Germany  several 
years,  and  has  also  travelled  in  France;  he  speaks 
both  French  and  German,  preferably  the  latter; 
and  has  books  of  German  philosophy  in  the  room. 
In  appearance,  he  is  a  courteous  European;  in 
reality,  there  is  reason  to  think  him  a  reactionary, 
who  would  be  glad  to  have  every  foreigner  in 
Shiraz  killed.  Were  I  a  Persian,  I  should  pro- 
ably  feel  the  same  way.  Before  leaving,  the 
Governor  very  civilly  invites  me  to  dinner  later 
in  the  week. 

Near  the  palace,  is  the  building  once  used  as 
the  andarun  (women's  apartments)  of  Karim 
Khan ;  it  is  now  the  office  of  the  Persian  Telegraph 
Co.  There  is  something  sardonic  about  the  uses 
to  which  these  degraded  buildings  are  now  put. 
A  lovely  old  garden  with  cypress  and  fruit-trees 
aroimd  a  tank  shaped  like  the  letter  T — which  is 
unusual — still  remains;  but  the  walls  and  column 

25 


386     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

of  the  pavilion  have  been  stripped  of  their  decora- 
tion, and  are  bare  or  daubed  with  paint 

Rain  fell  at  noon.  Driving  outside  the  city  at 
sunset,  I  find  that  the  pastel  colours,  which  were 
disappointing  when  I  first  looked  down  on  Shiraz 
from  the  hills  above,  have  a  delicate  charm  like 
that  of  a  faded  print  by  Harunobu.  The  cypress 
spires,  clustered  in  the  old  gardens  encircling  the 
city,  are  very  beautiful.  The  air  is  chill  and  pel- 
lucid; fields  of  grain,  a  deep  jewel  green,  are  spar- 
kling with  rain  drops;  tiny  clouds  of  pale  orange 
tinged  with  pink  (the  colour  of  tea  roses)  hang  in 
a  green-gold  sky,  above  mountains  streaked  with 
green,  brown,  and  yellow,  like  marble  surfaces. 


April  21^ 
The  British  Telegraph-Department  owns  a 
large  compound  in  Shiraz  with  houses  for  the  men 
in  its  service;  it  is  neat  and  charming.  The 
British  Consulate,  like  all  British  institutions  in 
far  countries,  is  maintained  in  a  way  befitting 
what  is — despite  its  defects — probably  the  most 
splendid  empire  the  world  has  yet  seen.  The 
Consul  is  a  most  unusual  person ;  still  young,  he 
has  distinguished  himself  as  the  interpreter  of  a 
world-famous  expedition,  and  the  only  living 
white  man  who  can  speak  and  write  one  of 
the  most  difficult  of  Asiatic  languages.  He  has 
been  described  as  "a  man  .  .  .  with  an  oflfhand 
courtesy  which  masks  an  attractively  unselfish 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  387 

nature  and  a  quick  and  observant  eye.  I  think, 
like  everyone  else  who  is  worth  knowing,  he  needs 
to  be  known,  for  it  is  truer  of  few  people  in  the 
world  than  of"  him  "that  he  attends  strictly  and 
exclusively  to  his  own  business;  a  touch  of  the 
recluse  ...  he  is  still  a  man  with  whom  no 
other  man,  except  by  his  own  fault,  could  fail 
to  be  on  the  best  of  terms."  His  intellect  is  bril- 
liant; his  extreme  reserve  never  conceals  the  real 
depth  and  deUcacy  of  his  feelings;  and  his  invin- 
cible courtesy  seems  a  survival  from  knightly  >, 
days.  A  few  hours  of  his  companionship  suffice 
to  make  one  realise  that  a  dreary  journey  across 
the  wastes  of  Persia,  is  well  repaid  by  the  privilege 

of  his  acquaintance 

The  bazars  of  Shiraz  are  long,  vaulted  passages 
of  yellow  brick,  like  all  the  others  in  Persia.  The 
only  difference  is  that  here  the  upper  half  of  the 
pointed  arch  opening  into  the  niche-like  shops, 
is  closed  with  a  screen  of  pierced  wood.  The  only 
picturesque  part  is  the  dyers'  quarters,  where  long 
narrow  strips  of  dark  blue  are  hung  across  cords 
to  dry,  or  else  depend  from  the  vaults  in  great 
festoons,  almost  touching  the  passers-by.  There 
is  some  colour  in  the  saddlers'  bazar,  where  saddle- 
cloths and  leather-work  are  displayed  on  the  walls 
and  arch-screens — large  pieces  of  cloth  or  leather 
usually  bright  orange  or  saffron,  with  long  fringes. 
Aside  from  these,  there  is  not  a  single  curious  or 
beautiful  object  for  sale,  nothing  but  trash  from 
Europe.     Intercommunication  has  killed  all  local 


388     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

customs  the  world  over,  and  has — with  the  aid 
of  machinery — replaced  by  vulgar  products  of 
commerce  the  native  handwork  that,  however 
rude,  was  at  least  sincere.  We  know  all  this,  yet 
continue  travelling,  lured  by  the  hope  that  we  shall 
some  day  find  a  country  where  this  is  not  true. 


April  22°*^ 
Shiraz  is  not  an  entirely  peaceful  place  even  in 
the  year  19 14.  Only  a  few  months  ago  the  Bel- 
gian Collector  of  Finances  was  dining  at  this 
house.  During  dinner,  a  servant  left  the  compound 
by  the  gate  leading  toward  the  Collector's  house; 
he  was  mistaken  for  the  Collector  and  fifteen  shots 
were  fired  at  him — without  injury! — by  men 
posted  in  the  ditches  beside  the  road.  The  door- 
way is  still  riddled  with  the  bullets.  Inves- 
tigation proved  this  to  be  an  attempt  on  the 
Collector's  life,  organised  by  the  richest  and  most 
influential  man  in  Shiraz.  He  was  arrested  and — 
as  justice  is  here  accessible  to  bribes — was  de- 
ported. With  this  affair  still  fresh  in  every'one's 
memory,  it  was  rather  startling  to  hear  a  shot 
just  as  we  were  going  in  to  dinner  to-night;  but 
this  time  nothing  exciting  had  happened. 


April  23':^ 
It  has  now  rained  for  the  greater  part  of  three 
days — at  this  season  an  unheard-of  occurrence. 


Tang-i-AUahu  Akbar 
The  first  view  of  Shiraz,  supposed  to  cause  all  travellers  to  exclaim,  in  admiration,  "  God  is 

Great!  " 


A  Namesake  of  Timur  Lang:  Timur  Tabriz! 


Graves  in  the  Enclosure  of  Hafiz's  Tomb,  Shiriz 


The  Tomb  of  Hdfiz,  Shirdz 
The  canopy  is  vulgar  modern  ironwork  gaudily  painted 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  389 

Early  this  morning  not  a  cloud  was  visible,  but  at 
present  the  sky  is  overcast;  nevertheless  in  des- 
peration I  start  out  to  see  what  remains  of  the 
sights,  once  the  pride  of  Shiraz.  A  namesake  of 
Tamerlane,  Colonel  B.'s  orderly,  Timur,  a  tall 
Tabriz!,  precedes  the  carriage  on  horseback,  his 
silver  pistol-case  slung  across  his  shoulders  by  an 
embroidered  baldric.  In  a  few  minutes  rain  begins 
to  fall  in  sheets.  When  we  reach  the  city,  what 
once  were  streets,  are  now  rivers  of  reddish  water 
on  whose  surface  rain-drops  rebound.  It  would 
be  hard  to  find  a  drearier  picture  than  this  clay- 
built  town,  with  its  soaking  walls  and  streaming 
streets  under  a  sky  of  the  deepest  violet,  that  seems 
to  fling  down  the  rain  in  anger.  The  tombs  of 
Hafiz  and  Sa'di  are  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
river;  on  my  arrival  the  entire  bed  was  dry — a 
wide  expanse  of  sand  and  stone  where  not  even 
one  rill  meandered ;  to-day  it  is  filled  to  the  banks 
by  an  opaquely  rufous  stream,  running  so  swiftly 
as  almost  to  sweep  away  the  cattle  being  forced 
across  it  from  the  opposite  bank.  It  is  spanned 
by  a  single  bridge;  built  in  days  when  carriages 
were  unknown,  its  sharp  incline  and  a  high  step  at 
either  end,  render  it  impracticable  for  wheeled 
traffic.  (Even  to-day,  the  carriages  in  Shiraz 
can  be  counted  on  one's  fingers.)  When  Timur 
has  found  a  possible  ford,  we  cross  slowly  with 
water  dashing  over  the  carriage  steps. 

After  winding  among  mud  hovels  and  passing 
a  field  of  opium-poppies,  where  a  few  large  white 


390     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

or  purple  blossoms  remain  undestroyed  by  rain, 
we  reach  the  Tomb  of  Hafiz  just  as  the  sun  begins 
to  reappear.  It  lies  in  one  of  those  gardens  so 
thickly  scattered  on  the  outskirts  of  the  city.  In 
general  arrangement  they  are  all  alike:  a  plot  of 
ground  entirely  enclosed,  on  three  sides  high  walls 
of  baked  yellow  brick  with  pointed  arcades  in 
slight  relief,  on  the  fourth  a  pavilion  raised  some 
three  or  four  feet  above  the  earth.  This  usually 
comprises  a  lofty  loggia,  closed  of  course  at  the 
back,  and  flanked  by  two  stories  of  very  small 
rooms.  I  had  always  heard  that  the  grave  of 
Persia's  favourite  poet  was  well  cared  for  and 
enclosed  by  a  beautiful  screen;  so  expected  for 
once  to  find  a  charming  spot, — it  proves  one  de- 
lusion more.  A  few  trees  grow  in  one  comer; 
elsewhere  there  is  no  room,  the  whole  enclosure 
being  roughly  paved  with  the  tombstones  of 
devotees,  who  wished  their  ashes  to  lie  near  those 
of  Hafiz.  The  poet  is  buried,  not — as  might  be 
expected — in  the  centre  of  the  court,  but  somewhat 
to  one  side.  The  grave  is  covered  by  a  high  slab 
of  marble  (inscribed  with  one  of  his  odes)  on  which 
a  common  vase  filled  with  lilacs  is  placed.  Over  it 
is  an  iron  pavilion;  ten  rods,  enclosed  by  a  screen 
of  vulgar  design,  support  a  metal  roof,  from  which 
iron  flags  rise.  It  is  brightly  painted  with  blue, 
black,  and  gold,  the  flags  being  brilliantly  coloured 
like  toys.  Anything  more  tawdry,  more  unsuited 
to  canopy  the  dust  of  a  world-famous  writer, 
would  be  hard  to  find.     The  man  who  wrote: 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  391 

"Open  my  grave  when  I  am  dead  and  thou  shalt 
see  a  cloud  of  smoke  rising  from  out  of  it;  then 
shalt  thou  know  that  the  fire  still  bums  in  my 
dead  heart — yea,  it  has  set  my  very  winding-sheet 
alight " ; — rests  under  a  shoddy  structure  well  fitted 
to  shelter  the  gross  patrons  of  a  German  beer- 
garden.  Standing  here,  'Umar's  shabby  sepulchre 
at  Nishapur  seems  less  distressful.  A  view  of 
cypress  spires  in  a  garden  filled  with  tangled  grass 
is  the  one  thing  poetic ;  but  even  this  is  marred  by 
being  seen  through  the  ruined  loggia,  where  the 
roof  has  fallen  and  the  floor  is  littered  with  heaps 
of  dirt  and  rotten  wood.  No  ruins  I  have  seen  are 
so  slovenly  and  unromantic  as  those  of  the  delicate 
Persian  buildings  once  veneered  and  coloured. 

In  a  chapel-like  room  opening  off  the  court, 
are  the  tombs  of  the  most  powerful  family  of 
nobles  in  Shiraz.  Graves  and  building  are  neat 
and  in  good  repair;  but  the  vulgarity  of  every 
object  seems  incredible  in  a  land  which  created  one 
of  the  most  exquisite  forms  of  art  the  world  has 
seen.  The  grave-stones  are  covered  with  ugly 
cloths  and  European  bath-towels ;  on  these,  tawdry 
lamps  with  painted  or  gilded  shades,  have  been 
placed  in  rows;  the  room  looks  like  a  booth  at  a 
county-fair.  It  is  a  dispiriting  sight,  in  that  it 
brings  home  the  decadence  of  a  race  which  once 
lead  the  world  in  refinement  of  taste.  At  the 
tomb  of  Hafiz,  where  I  expected  some  form  of 
loveliness,  I  have  found  only  vulgarity  and  decay; 
I  leave  feeling  more  depressed  than  sad. 


392     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

A  short  distance  further  on,  we  reach  the 
Garden  of  the  Forty  Dervishes.  Outside  the  en- 
trance is  a  real  dervish,  with  long  black  hair  and 
beard,  dressed  in  flowing  white  robes,  an  i  looking 
as  though  he  had  just  stepped  out  of  the  Bible. 
Within,  the  slabs  which  mark  the  forty  graves, 
lie  along  the  walls  in  two  rows,  under  a  tangle  of 
orange  and  cypress-trees  now  growing  wild. 
Here  the  pavilion  has  no  loggia,  all  the  openings 
being  closed  by  pierced  wooden  screens.  In  the 
principal  room  men  are  seated  on  the  floor,  smok- 
ing qalyuns  and  drinking  tea;  for  Persians  still 
foregather  in  these  ancient  gardens.  Walking 
about  under  the  shade  of  splendid  trees  between 
high  walls,  it  is  impossible  not  to  be  impressed 
with  the  secrecy  of  Persian  life.  Everything 
takes  place  in  jealously  guarded  seclusion,  behind 
walls  that  defy  the  curious.  Of  course,  the  Per- 
sian's desire  to  enjoy  the  company  of  his  women 
unveiled,  has  much  to  do  with  this;  but  about 
such  imprisoned  privacy,  there  is  to  us  something 
stifling.  A  walled  garden  is  a  lovely  spot,  but 
here  the  walls  are  so  high  they  make  one  sigh  for 
a  glimpse  over  the  city  toward  the  hills.  Close 
at  hand  is  another  garden — that  of  the  Seven 
Dervishes,  so  called  for  reasons  I  cannot  discover. 
From  the  outside  these  Shiraz  gardens  are  so 
highly  pictorial,  they  seem  arranged  by  famous 
painters.  Hieratic  cypress-trees  raise  their  black 
cones  symmetrically  above  the  buff  walls,  outlined 
against  the  tawny  flank  of  hardby  hills.    Within, 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  393 

this  garden  is  more  than  usually  elaborate,  and 
must  in  its  prime  have  been  a  place  of  enchant- 
ment. The  loggia  is  wainscotted  with  that  curious 
marble,  greenish-white  and  only  semi-opaque, 
which  comes  from  Yazd.  Three  frescos  are  still 
clearly  visible;  one  of  them  strangely  enough 
represents  Abraham's  sacrifice  of  Isaac.  In  front 
of  the  pavilion  lies  a  stone  terrace  with  long  tanks, 
where  jets  of  water  once  rose  and  fell;  beyond  that, 
the  cypress  alley  extends  to  the  wall  sternly  clos- 
ing the  delightful  prospect.  Just  visible  through 
the  cunningly  wrought  screen,  a  man  is  seated 
at  a  second-storey  window,  filling  the  enclosure 
with  a  monotonous  psalmody.  The  painted  stucco 
is  crumbling  from  the  walls,  the  roof  is  falling, 
the  window-screens  hang  in  pieces,  the  water 
pools  are  stagnant,  the  stone  facings  are  cracked 
and  filled  with  weeds,  and  what  was  once  the 
garden,  is  now  a  tangled  wilderness.  In  its  splen- 
dour, when  trim  and  cultivated,  with  refined 
pleasure-lovers  in  beautiful  robes  strolling  through 
its  alleys,  it  must  have  been  as  lovely  a  spot  as 
man  could  devise.  Indeed,  in  places  such  as  this, 
even  now  it  is  possible  dimly  to  conceive  the  love- 
liness which  caused  Shiraz  to  resound  with  the 
praise  of  poets.  Built  in  a  fertile  plain  surrounded 
by  barren  but  fair-coloured  hills,  this  city  girdled 
with  secret  gardens,  where  birds  sang  and  poets 
lay  in  the  cypress  shade,  must  indeed  have  been 
an  Elysian  dwelling.  Even  in  decay,  these  old 
gardens  still  retain  a  charm  of  their  own,  and  are 


394     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  only  things  possessed  of  a  little  poetry  that 
I  have  seen  in  Persia.  It  is  pitiful  to  think  that 
within  a  few  years,  they  will  have  fallen  into  ruin 
beyond  repair;  and  that  within  a  half-century 
not  one  remnant  of  Persia's  splendour  will  remain. 

The  famous  Dilgusha  Bagh  —  the  Heart- 
Expanding  Garden — although  untended,  is  still  a 
vast  and  lovely  enclosure,  filled  with  lofty  cypress 
and  lustrous  orange-trees  growing  in  high  grass. 
The  sun  has  disappeared  once  more,  and  great 
storm-clouds  sweep  across  the  sky  as  we  drive 
to  Sa'di's  Tomb,  which  lies  at  the  foot  of  the  hills 
beyond  even  the  outskirts  of  Shiraz.  The  tomb 
is  of  course  inside  a  walled  garden,  but  unlike 
Hafiz,  Sa'dl  is  buried  in  the  centre  of  a  bare  and 
whitewashed  room  overlooking  the  garden.  The 
grave  is  marked  by  an  inscribed  slab  inside  a  metal 
screen;  it  is  not  impressive,  but  all  the  surround- 
ings are  neat,  free  from  vulgarity,  and  less  ruinous 
than  usual.  Consequently  it  is  possible  to  stand 
with  pleasure  beside  the  burial-place  of  this  famous 
lover  of  the  rose,  who  once  wandered  over  nearly 
all  the  world  known  in  those  olden  days,  only  to 
lay  his  dust  in  a  garden  outside  the  town  where 
he  was  bom.  The  youth  who  has  the  tomb  in 
charge,  brings  out  a  beautiful  manuscript  of  Sa'dl's 
poems,  in  a  once  splendid  binding  on  which  a 
tracery  of  rose-branches  still  shows.  As  we  drive 
home  the  rain  falls  heavily  once  more 

In  the  afternoon  my  kindly  hosts  take  me  to 
visit  the  Bagh-i-Takht,  a  royal  garden  built  by 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  395 

Agha  Muhammad  Khan — the  cruel  Qajar  eunuch, 
who  founded  the  reigning  dynasty.  To  cross  the 
river  above  the  bridge,  is  even  more  difficult  than 
it  was  this  morning  below  it.  The  river-side  is 
muddy,  so  two  boys  with  their  skirts  tucked  in 
their  girdles,  run  along  and  tug  at  the  wheels  with 
loud  cries  of  "  Ya!  *Ali!"  whenever  we  stick  fast. 
The  carriage  drops  into  the  river  with  a  splash, 
and  nearly  overturns  as  the  horses  stop  short; 
when  we  reach  the  other  bank  they  can  hardly 
drag  us  out.  The  Bagh-i-Takht  deserves  its 
name — the  Throne  Garden;  it  is  built  on  the 
hillside  on  top  of  seven  terraces,  rather  like  an 
Italian  villa,  and  quite  different  from  anything 
I  have  seen  in  Persia.  The  terraces  are  very 
narrow — little  wider  than  large  steps — and  adorned 
with  elaborate  water- works;  the  retaining  walls 
are  faced  with  small  arcades  once  gay  with  tiles. 
In  front  of  the  superimposed  terraces,  running 
their  whole  width,  is  an  immense  tank  now  dry, 
with  fragments  of  a  central  fountain  from  which 
four  lions  once  spouted  water.  Tank  and  terrace- 
basins  are  now  merely  sunken  spaces  with  fissured 
stone  margins  and  bottoms  covered  with  earth. 
Of  the  great  walls  once  enclosing  the  garden,  no 
sign  remains,  and  of  trees,  only  one  alley  to  the 
right  of  the  tank — although  many  others  were 
still  standing  a  few  years  ago.  Under  the  cypress- 
shade  the  body  of  the  unfortunate  Swedish  officer 
killed  at  Kazarun  a  few  months  ago,  has  been 
buried.     The  new  grass  seems  doubly  sad  this 


396     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

afternoon,  for  word  has  just  come  that  another 
of  the  Swedish  officers — a  young  and  charming 
man  whom  I  often  met  at  Tihran — has  just  been 
killed  by  brigands.  There  are  moments  when  the 
whole  wretched  country  does  not  seem  worth  the 

life  of  one  European Of  the  buildings 

on  the  terrace-top  nothing  remains;  just  a  few 
shabby  modem  houses,  in  one  of  which  the  English 
physician  has  installed  a  hospital  that,  in  remote 
Shiraz,  is  a  monument  to  what  British  energy  can 
accomplish.  A  few  sick  and  wounded  gendarmes 
look  out  of  the  windows  across  the  ruin  of  what 

once  was  a  Shah's  pleasure  dwelling 

The  elements,  as  well  as  the  natives,  do  all  they 
can  to  lay  waste  the  gardens  of  Shiraz.  Last  night's 
storm  unchained  all  its  fury  on  the  Bagh-i-Naw, 
where  the  English  manager  of  the  Bank  now  lives; 
this  morning  all  but  one  of  the  splendid  cypress- 
trees  lie  uprooted  in  a  tangled  ruin. 


April  25*> 
The  rain  continues  to  fall  in  heavy  showers, 
and  has  postponed  my  departure  for  Bushir.  In 
the  afternoon  it  is  clear  enough  to  permit  me  to 
visit  the  Bagh-i-Iram,  which  is  still  inhabited. 
It  is  the  largest  and  most  beautiful  garden  I  have 
seen  in  Persia.  The  house  is  two-storeyed  and  of 
stucco,  with  three  loggic  and  curiously  shaped 
pediments  on  the  second  storey.  Tiles  decorate 
various  parts,  particularly  fine  ones  in  the  pedi- 


The  View  from  Hafiz's  Tomb,  Shiraz 


Garden  of  the  Forty  Dervishes,  Shir&z 


Inside  the  Garden  of  the  Seven  Dervishes,  Shiraz 


Garden  of  the  Seven  Dervishes,  on  the  Outskirts  of  ShirJlz 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  397 

ments  where  the  Shah  is  depicted  in  his  garden. 
Altogether  it  is  a  fanciful  but  pleasant  dwelling. 
A  large  court  precedes  it,  divided  into  four  par- 
terres by  paved  pathways  and  a  long  tank.  Here 
orange  and  lemon-trees  grow  alternately,  among 
rose  bushes  covered  with  pink  blossoms;  flowers, 
trees,  and  houses,  all  mirrored  in  the  water.  Be- 
hind the  villa  lies  a  large  and  splendid  garden; 
first  of  all  a  stone  terrace  with  a  deep  pool  of  clear 
water,  and  beyond  that  as  fine  an  alley  as  any 
garden  can  boast — an  avenue  of  trim  grass, 
where  in  the  centre  a  narrow  water-channel  runs 
down  the  levels,  each  only  a  few  inches  lower  than 
the  one  preceding;  on  either  side  an  endless  line 
of  stately  trees.  Each  row  starts  with  a  single 
stone-pine,  a  high  branchless  trunk  terminating 
in  a  wide  umbrella  of  dark  boughs;  then  great 
cypress-trees,  centuries  old  and  almost  black, 
interspersed  with  planes  so  trimmed  that  only  a 
clump  of  bright  green  leaves  is  left  on  top  of  the 
long  trunks,  densely  draped  with  brown-berried 
ivy.  The  contrast  between  the  varying  greens 
is  delightful,  while  the  slimness  and  pallor  of  the 
plane-trees  make  the  cypresses  seem  darker  and 
more  immense.  To  right  and  left  of  the  main 
avenue,  like  lateral  aisles  flanking  a  cathedral 
nave,  are  narrower  alleys  of  slender  pines.  The 
vista  down  the  long  aisle  of  cypress  and  plane  is 
finally  closed  by  a  small  pavilion,  through  which 
the  water  conduit  passes  into  still  another  en- 
closure.    The  whole  garden,  while  very  old  and 


398     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

somewhat  overgrown,  is  in  no  way  neglected.  It 
can  bear  comparison  with  the  villas  of  Italy,  and 
really  is  not  unworthy  of  what  the  words  "a  Per- 
sian garden"  suggest The  storm  is  sweep- 
ing towards  us  again,  and  black  clouds  close  the 
stately  aisle;  but  this  old  garden  I  shall  always 
recall  as  the  one  thing  in  Persia  that  has  given 
me  unalloyed  delight.  What  must  not  have  been 
the  charm  of  Shiraz,  when  it  abounded  in  such 
gardens  as  this,  where  pleasure-seekers  subtly 
refined  listened  to  music  and  the  impassioned 
verse  of  Sa'di  or  of  Hafiz? 


April  27*> 
The  charm  of  Shiraz  grows  with  time.  Its  situ- 
ation is  really  full  of  grace;  the  plain  in  which  it 
lies,  although  large,  is  still  small  enough  to  seem 
well  sheltered;  while  the  hills  surrounding  it  are 
beautiful  in  colour,  and  just  high  enough  to  please 
yet  not  to  oppress.  The  whole  valley  is  now  a 
smiling  field  of  vivid  green,  spread  about  Shiraz 
like  the  skirts  of  a  mantle.  Seen  nearby,  it  is  a 
sorry  town;  but  from  a  distance  when  only  its 
cypress  spires  and  a  few  domes  show,  it  might 
still  be  the  home  of  poets.  Driving  toward  the 
Gulshan  garden,  the  road  passes  through  fields 
of  young  grain — broad  surfaces  of  emerald  rip- 
pling slowly  in  the  breeze.  Wild  poppies  grow 
by  the  wayside,  or  in  the  fields  make  an  occasional 
splash  of  scarlet  sprinkled  with  the  blue  of  com- 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  399 

flowers,  half  hidden  below  taller  stalks  of  grain 
and  poppies.  The  larger  part  of  Gulshan  is 
modem;  but  an  old  terrace  with  a  basin  of 
stagnant  water,  about  which  cypresses  are  grouped, 
still  remains.  Beyond  this,  is  a  long  alley,  where 
the  feathery  foliage  of  pale  green  chindrs  contrasts 
delightfully  with  the  sombre  c^^press-trees.  Be- 
hind them  a  thicket  stretches,  full  of  large  snow- 
ball bushes  hung  with  pure  white  globes.  The 
conduit,  once  murmuring  with  water,  now  lies 
dry  and  cracked.  Through  the  trees  distant  moun- 
tain-tops are  just  visible,  and  the  air  is  noisy 
with  the  bubbling  croak  of  frogs,  floating  in  the 
basin  with  distended  cheeks. 


April  28*> 
To-day  I  accompany  my  hostess,  when  she 
calls  at  the  Bagh-i-Iram.  We  are  ushered  in  by 
the  chief  eunuch,  a  person  of  almost  black  skin 
and  uncertain  age.  A  eunuch  dressed  in  a  frock- 
coat  and  a  European  overcoat,  seems  an  anomaly. 
I  remain  in  the  fore-court,  while  Mrs.  B.  enters 
the  house  to  pay  her  visit  to  the  khdniim  or  chief 
wife  of  the  owner,  who  is  the  person  recently  de- 
ported for  instigating  the  attempt  on  the  life  of 
the  Collector  of  Finances.  In  full  sunlight  the 
garden  seems  even  lovelier  than  before.  The 
roses  now  being  in  full  bloom,  each  bush  is  a  pink 
mass  of  widespread  blossom,  about  to  scatter  its 
petals.     Half  hidden  among  the  glossy  leaves  of 


400     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  orange  and  lemon-trees,  which  alternate  so 
picturesquely  with  the  roses,  are  small  closed  buds, 
round  and  white  like  pearls;  a  few  have  already- 
begun  to  open  and  fill  the  air  with  intoxicating 
scents.  To  my  intense  surprise,  the  head  eunuch 
soon  comes  out,  bringing  word  that  the  khdnum 
wishes  to  receive  me.  However  elderly,  I  feel 
sure  the  lady  would  not  have  extended  so  miusual 
an  invitation,  were  her  lord  not  in  exile. 

I  find  the  khdnum  and  Mrs.  B.  in  a  scrupulously 
neat  room  with  a  fine  carpet.  I  have  been  told 
that  she  is  old,  and  what  I  can  see  of  her,  bears 
this  out.  She  is  enveloped  from  head  to  foot  in  a 
veil  of  light  blue  silk,  held  across  the  face  so  that 
the  eyes  alone  are  visible.  Two  female  attendants 
are  present,  their  more  loosely  drawn  veils  per- 
mitting me  to  see  that  they  are  almost  black. 
The  eunuch  stands  in  front  of  the  door,  holding 
one  of  his  hands  in  the  other.  Through  great 
windows  opening  on  a  balcony,  I  overlook  the 
beautiful  garden  caressed  by  sun,  and  hear  a  con- 
tinual twittering  of  birds  dominated  by  a  night- 
ingale's liquid  call.  Conversation  is  formal  and 
limited,  as  Mrs.  B.  speaks  but  little  Persian  and  I 
none.  After  we  have  been  offered  cakes  and 
sweets,  which  I  find  difficult  to  swallow  politely, 
we  are  taken  to  see  the  view  from  the  principal 
room.  Situated  on  the  garden  axis,  it  rises  through 
two  storeys  like  an  audience-chamber,  and  is 
entirely  open  on  the  garden  side.  The  great 
basin  lies  at  my  feet,  its  green  water  rippled  by 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  401 

wind;  beyond  it,  stretches  the  glorious  cypress 
alley,  with  the  chindr  tops  emerging  at  intervals 
like  emerald  banners.  This  tiled  residence — 
despite  its  modem  furnishing — will,  with  its 
wonderful  old  garden,  always  remain  in  my  mind 
as  the  one  thing  I  have  seen  in  Persia  which 
conveys  an  impression  of  what  life  must  have 
been  in  the  days  of  Shah  'Abbas. 


April  29*^ 
To-day  a  last  drive  to  visit  the  gardens  that 
have  pleased  me  most.  The  poppy  fields  near 
the  Tomb  of  Hafiz  are  in  full  bloom;  masses  of 
sturdy  foliage  from  which  long  stalks  rise,  carry- 
ing wide  crinkled  cups  of  white  or  at  times 
magenta.  At  the  Garden  of  the  Seven  Dervishes, 
as  soon  as  I  enter  I  am  conscious  that  the  orange- 
trees  have  begun  to  blossom,  for  the  air  is  redolent 
with  a  faint  but  heady  perfume.  Ruined  as  it 
is,  the  ancient  pleasance  is  still  a  lovely  spot.  To 
escape  the  company  of  my  escort,  without  whom 
etiquette  forbids  one  to  move  in  Shiraz,  I  mount 
to  one  of  the  little  chambers  in  the  second-storey 
pavilion.  Leaning  on  a  ruined  window-screen, 
the  whole  garden  spreads  below  me.  Here  cy- 
presses are  for  once  replaced  by  magnificent  pines, 
with  tall  shaggy  boles — golden  red  near  the  ground, 
but  grey  where  the  boughs  begin  to  spread  their 
parasol  of  green  needles.  Between  the  rows  of 
pine,  orange-trees  grow,  with  the  waxen  white  of 
36 


402      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

new  buds  just  visible  among  the  shining  leaves. 
Untended  flowers  are  scattered  among  weeds  and 
wild  grass.  In  the  centre  of  the  enclosure,  imder 
the  broad  shade  of  a  tree  resembling  maples,  the 
Seven  Dervishes  are  buried  beneath  blocks  of 
stone,  inscribed  with  beautiful  Persian  characters 
enclosed  in  cartouches.  At  my  feet  the  tree-tops 
are  reflected  on  the  stagnant  olive  surface  of  the 
terrace  basin,  beside  which  a  few  flowers  give  a 
touch  of  brilliant  colour.  A  woman,  wrapped  in 
a  mantle  of  rusty  black,  crouches  beside  the  tank 
at  the  feet  of  the  dervish  I  saw  the  other  day. 
Dressed  in  a  single  garment  of  dirt}'-  white,  leav- 
ing his  chest  bare,  with  his  bronzed  skin,  hatless 
head  (here  very  unusual),  and  long  black  locks, 
he  seems  an  apostle  come  to  life.  Above  the 
wall  through  the  pines,  I  can  see  the  tapering 
cypress-trees  in  the  neighbouring  garden;  while 
far  away  across  green  meadows  the  roofs  of  Shiraz 
stretch  in  fawn-coloured  rows.  In  places  clusters 
of  foliage  interrupt  their  lines,  and  over  all  two 
pointed  domes  appear  to  float.  The  air  is  still, 
except  for  passing  breezes  that  just  sway  the 
smallest  branches  and  then  die.  The  only  sounds 
are :  the  buzzing  of  a  fly,  the  caw  of  distant  crows, 
and  the  whirr  of  a  pigeon's  flight.  The  sky  is  not 
hidden,  but  veiled  by  a  haze  of  uniform  grey, 
through  which  light  filters  like  a  tremulous  ghost. 
The  stillness  and  abandon  of  all  in  sight  breed 
melancholy,  but  one  that  is  gentle  and  pleasant 
to  savour. 


mAmmnmikm 


The  Tomb  of  Sa'di,  Outside  Shiraz 


Windows  of  the  Room  where  Sa'di  is  Buried,  Shiraz 


A  Hospital  in  the  Ruins  of  a  King's  Pleasure  Dwelling 

The  Bigh-i-Takht,  or  Throne  Garden,  was  built  by  the  ferocious  Agha  Muhammad  Khtn,  Qajar,  founder 

of  the  reignous  Persian  dynasty,  and  is  now  used  as  a  hospital 


Palace  of  Karim  Khan,  Shirftz 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  403 

On  the  way  to  Sa'dl's  Tomb,  the  fields  are  dotted 
with  groups  of  women  squatting  on  the  ground 
beside  the  rivulets,  washing  and  drying  their 
linen.  Near  the  enclosure  a  crowd  of  men  is 
busy,  washing  lamb-skins  in  the  brook,  and  then 
spreading  them  in  rows  to  dry  beside  the  road, 
like  giant  beetles  flattened  out.  The  first  spring 
day  would  seem  to  have  brought  all  the  towns- 
folk out  to  take  the  air;  the  formerly  deserted 
court  of  Sa'dl's  Tomb  is  thronged  with  men 
seated  under  the  trees  smoking  qalyuns,  while  the 
women  prepare  food  in  separate  groups.  As  I 
pass  they  draw  their  black  veils  across  their  faces, 
but  their  white  masks  are  thrown  back,  leaving 
eyes  and  forehead  visible.  At  the  pavilion  win- 
dows men  are  smoking  cross-legged  on  the  floor, 
precisely  as  depicted  in  ancient  miniatures.  A 
love  of  flowers  and  the  open,  courtesy,  and  hospi- 
tality, are  virtues  which  still  redeem  the  Persians. 
The  guardian  of  the  tomb  hastens  to  present  me 
with  a  small  bouquet  of  purple  iris — a  pleasant 
gift,  even  when  offered  to  obtain  a  fee.  Having 
really  come  to  see  the  illuminated  manuscript, 
I  ask  to  have  it  brought.  It  is  a  joy  to  turn  the 
half-soiled  pages  of  this  old  book,  with  its  fine 
calligraphy  enclosed  in  irregular  cartouches  shaped 
like  clouds.  The  intervals  are  fitted  with  gold, 
traced  with  tiny  flowerets  in  bright  clear  colours 
like  enamel.  Some  leaves  have  a  solid  border, 
where  gold,  indigo,  and  carmine,  glitter  as  though 
laid  but  yesterday.    There  are  a  few  paintings, 


404     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

much  damaged  but  still  fair.  The  delicacy  of  the 
flowers,  the  intricacy  of  design,  and  the  perfect 
taste,  are  beyond  praise.  The  whole  book  is  like 
jewel  work;  turning  the  pages,  it  is  painful  to 
think  that  negligence  will  soon  destroy  it — unless 
saved  by  sale  to  a  foreigner,  which  elsewhere 
could  be  vandalism. 

The  Dilgusha  Bagh  is  also  thronged  with  poor 
folk  come  to  enjoy  an  outing.  Several  women, 
veiled  in  pale  blue  and  pink  silk,  hurry  down  a 
path  to  escape  my  presence.  They  must  be  per- 
sons of  quality  to  wear  such  unusual  stuffs.  Men 
and  women  stroll  about,  or  sit  in  the  shade  of 
orange-trees.  When  they  walk,  these  black-stoled 
figures,  with  a  white  patch  where  a  face  should  be, 
look  more  like  inauspicious  phantoms  than  like 
women.  The  old  garden  where  some  noble  Shi- 
razT  once  enjoyed  a  guarded  privacy,  is  to-day 
the  ruined  playground  of  the  poor.  The  crowd 
and  the  company  of  my  orderly,  who  feels  it  his 
duty  to  keep  within  ten  feet  of  me,  prevent  my 
lingering Shiraz,  girdled  with  yellow- 
green  hills  and  crowned  with  the  sombre  cypresses 
of  its  ancient  gardens,  set  down  among  green 
meadows  and  white  fields  of  opium-poppy,  is  the 
one  place  in  Persia  that  has  really  charmed  me. 

To-morrow  I  start  for  Bushir,  the  Persian  Gulf, 
and  a  boat  to  India.  I  am  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  escorting  Mrs.  B.'s  mother  as  far  as  Bushir. 
We  are  to  have  a  guard  of  soldiers  and  an  officer 
belonging  to  the  newly  formed  Army  of  Fars,  as 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  405 

the  road  is  still  insecure;  indeed  a  few  months  ago 
it  would  scarcely  have  been  safe  to  travel,  even 
with  a  larger  escort.  My  guide,  Husayn,  I  dis- 
charged yesterday,  since  I  no  longer  needed  him, 
and  had  caught  him  disobeying  orders.  He 
was  an  inefficient  and  dirty  beast,  who  made  me 
long  for  even  the  days  of  Aghajan.  Colonel  B.  is 
sending  his  head  servant — who  speaks  English — 
with  us,  and  also  various  conveniences  and  pro- 
visions ;  so  we  should  travel  with  a  comfort  I  have 

as  yet  not  known Departure  at   each 

stage  is  painful;  one  is  reluctant  to  leave  comfort 
and  pleasant  places,  above  all  to  lose  the  company 
of  hosts  whose  consideration  and  hospitality  have 
made  a  visit  memorable.  This  regret  is,  in  places 
so  remote,  heightened  by  the  thought  that  probably 
one  may  never  meet  them  again. 


April  30*> 
At  four  o'clock  it  was  still  night  and  the  stars 
brilliant;  but  they  soon  dimmed,  as  the  dark  sky 
began  to  pale  and  turn  golden  green  along  the 
horizon.  Full  day  has  now  broken,  cool  and  fresh 
after  the  showers  of  last  night,  and  all  the  poplars 
are  bowing  in  the  breezes.  The  mules  and  escort 
were  ordered  to  be  here  at  four  o'clock,  but  five 
has  passed  before  they  arrive;  it  is  six  when  they 
finally  leave.  At  seven  Mrs.  D.  and  I  start  in 
the  carriage  to  overtake  the  caravan  at  the  first 
stage.      Colonel  and   Mrs.   B.   with   our   escort 


4o6     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

follow  on  horseback.  In  the  clear  light  of  early 
morning  they  are  a  picturesque  sight,  galloping 
after  us  between  green  fields  of  grain,  spattered 
with  poppies  and  swept  by  wind.  In  an  hour  we 
reach  Chinar-i-Rahdar,  beyond  which  carriages 
cannot  go.  The  mules  are  waiting,  and  a  crowd 
has  gathered  outside  the  caravanserai  to  watch 
our  movements. 

After  farewells  have  been  said  to  relatives,  and 
— in  my  case — kindly  hosts,  whose  courtesy  has 
enhanced  the  pleasures  of  Shiraz,  we  start  toward 
Bushlr.  Our  caravan  is  quite  imposing;  eleven 
pack  animals,  Mrs.  D.,  myself.  Said,  two  Persian 
servants  sent  by  Mrs.  B.,  ten  mounted  soldiers, 
and  an  officer.  Three  of  the  escort  come  from 
the  neighbourhood  of  Tabriz,  fine  fellows  with 
firm  handsome  faces  and  neat  bearing,  who  look 
as  though  they  might  really  fight  when  necessary. 
Their  captain  has  been  to  the  Jesuit  College  at 
Bey  rout,  where  he  learned  to  speak  quite  fluent 
French.  He  is  tall,  well  set  up,  and  very  civil; 
not  a  bad  sort,  although  his  Persian  blood  obliges 
him  to  boast  and  gallop  about  continually  in  the 
hope  of  impressing.  That  he  sits  a  horse  splen- 
didly, I  must  admit. 

The  road  rises  rapidly  among  barren  hillocks, 
which  from  time  to  time  open  out,  affording  views 
over  uplands  and  valleys.  The  hills  are  russet 
with  sandy  patches  of  white;  far  away  the  pros- 
pect is  closed  by  the  side  of  a  mountain,  ribbed 
horizontally  and  richly  coloured  purple.     Strings 


Tomb  of  Karim  Khan,  in  the  Garden  of  his  Palace,  Shiraz 
Tombstone  and  body  have  disappeared,  and  the  building  now  serves  as  headquarters 
for  the  army  of  Fars 


Ceiling  of  the  Tomb  of  Karim  Khan,  Shiraz 


-"^i^^-Ttiria 


15.-. -.V. 


^'--'•> 


Tiles  in  Inner  Court:  Palace  of  Karim  Khan,  Shir&z 


Where  Telegraph  Instruments  Have  Taken  the  Place  of  a  King's  Wives.     The  Andarun 
of  Karim  Khan,  Shir&z 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  407 

of  mules  and  donkeys  pass  frequently;  for  the 
road  to  Bushir  was  closed  to  trade  for  so  many 
months  by  trouble  with  the  brigands,  that  it  is 
now  alive  with  caravans  conveying  congested 
merchandise.  We  have  already  climbed  more 
than  a  thousand  feet  above  Shiraz,  and  the  hills 
have  become  covered  with  green  and  even  with 
shrubs,  in  Persia  always  a  welcome  sight.  Gen- 
darmerie posts  are  numerous — fort-like  buildings 
on  hill-crests,  flying  faded  flags.  An  incident 
typically  Persian  has  just  occurred ;  we  came  upon 
a  poor  donkey  lying  beside  the  road,  its  back  one 
mass  of  bleeding  sores,  and  its  impotent  legs 
folded  under  the  body,  as  it  slowly  rolled  its  en- 
feebled head  in  a  manner  horrible  to  watch.  The 
owners  were  walking  off,  about  to  leave  it  to  a 
death  of  slow  agony,  since  it  could  no  longer  take 
one  more  tortured  step.  At  my  suggestion,  one 
of  the  escort  ended  its  misery.  The  poor  creature 
is  hardly  out  of  sight,  when  we  meet  a  camel's 
carcass  almost  denuded  of  flesh,  so  it  is  possible 
to  see  that  one  of  its  hind  legs  had  been  broken 
near  the  hip.  It  is  more  than  certain  that  it 
was  abandoned  here  without  one  thought,  to 
agonise  for  hours  if  not  days.  The  roads  in  Persia 
are  nothing  but  endless  shambles.  To  those  who 
can  see  no  difference,  except  in  degree  of  develop- 
ment, between  man  and  beast,  and  to  whom  the 
sight  of  suffering  in  animals  is,  because  of  their 
helplessness,  more  intolerable  than  that  of  men; 
travel  here  seems  more  than  can  be  endured. 


408      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

The  sky  has  for  some  time  been  veiled;  storm- 
clouds  now  gather,  and  soon  rain  begins  to  fall 
sharply.  Before  long,  however,  the  sun  reappears. 
The  road  winds  through  a  valley,  on  the  edge  of 
a  high  cliff,  above  the  broad  but  half -dry  bed  of 
a  river,  twisting  its  way  swiftly  through  the 
stones.  The  trunks  of  small  willows  rise  in 
clumps  from  the  water,  which  rushes  by  in  beryl- 
coloured  streams.  Their  pleasant  sound  floats 
upward,  and  the  eye  is  gladdened  by  the  first  clear 
brook  I  have  seen  in  Persia.  Khan-i-Zinian  has 
long  been  visible,  and  is  now  drawing  rapidly 
nearer.  It  is  a  squalid  group  of  hovels  beside 
a  large  fortified  caravanserai,  where  a  vaulted 
gateway  gives  admittance  to  a  courtyard  enclosed 
by  high  arcades.  Although  less  filthy  than  some 
I  have  encountered,  it  is  not  a  pleasant  resting- 
place.  The  assurance  that  comfortable  rooms, 
maintained  by  the  Telegraph  Department,  were 
to  be  found  at  every  halting-place  on  the  road  to 
Bushir,  proves  as  delusive  as  all  the  other  promises 
of  greater  comforts,  given  every  time  one  starts 
a  new  journey  across  Persia 

Night  in  a  Persian  caravanserai.  A  little  moon 
is  westering  through  a  grey-blue  sky  strewn  with 
stars.  Though  only  an  upturned  white  crescent, 
it  gives  light  enough  to  see  across  the  court,  where 
a  few  beasts  stand  with  softly  tinkling  bells. 
Here  and  there  a  golden  expanse  breaks  the  dark- 
ness, where  a  candle  is  burning  in  an  arcade  filled 
with   strange   shadows,    within   which    men   are 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  409 

grouped  about  a  tiny  fire,  cooking  or  smoking. 
The  hum  of  voices  echoes  through  the  night,  at 
times  rising  into  cries  or  shrill  altercation. 


May  I'.* 
To  avoid  travelling  in  the  heat  of  mid-day,  we 
are  to  make  a  very  early  start.  At  three  o'clock 
it  is  darkest  night — the  moon  having  set — and 
the  stars  are  veiled  by  mist.  Our  chdrwaddrs 
are  unusually  bad,  making  no  attempt  to  load 
the  animals,  until  I  lay  about  me  with  a  thong ' 
given  me  for  the  purpose  at  Shiraz.  Blows  being 
the  only  language  these  men  understand,  a  few 
months  in  Persia  would  make  a  philanthropist 
turn  slaver.  When  we  leave,  day  has  begun  to 
break.  Above  the  mountain-tops  behind  the 
caravanserai,  hang  long  trails  of  copper  cloud 
mingled  with  others  coloured  like  a  bird's  breast. 
Below  us  the  shrunken  river  runs  swiftly  through 
its  gravel  bed,  filling  our  ears  with  its  swirling 
murmur  as  we  ride  through  the  chill  air  of  early 
day.  Across  the  river  lies  a  low  range  of  swelling 
hills,  dotted  with  trees — a  rare  sight  in  so  barren 
a  coiuitry.  Behind  them  a  high  but  still  verdant 
chain,  on  which  snow  lingers,  catches  on  its  crests 
the  first  flush  of  the  ascending  sun.  Ahead  of  us 
the  sky  is  lifeless  yet,  covered  with  violet  films  of 
cloud.  Before  long  the  road  drops  toward  the 
river,  where  a  picturesque  old  bridge  with  green 
bushes  waving  from  its  crannies,  crosses  the  grey 


410     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

expanse  of  gravel.  Several  streams  meander 
through  the  river  bed,  and  have  to  be  forded  be- 
fore reaching  the  bridge;  their  clear  aquamarine 
water  twisting  among  willows  and  silver  gravel  is 
pleasant  to  see. 

After  a  sudden  turn,  a  cliff-like  row  of  peaks 
appears  suddenly  above  the  dull  green  hills  we 
have  skirted,  catching  a  gleam  of  sun,  and  outlined 
in  luminous  grey  against  a  sky  of  deep  violet. 
The  road  now  climbs  the  steep  face  of  a  long  spur, 
until  it  reaches  a  slowly  rising  ridge,  then  takes 
its  way  between  thorny  trees  just  putting  forth 
small  leaves.  Far  below  to  the  right,  the  river 
is  visible  winding  through  the  valley  from  a  point 
where  the  view  is  closed  by  a  rocky  pyramid  of 
grey  mountain  streaked  with  snow.  On  the  left 
a  brook  is  precipitated  down  a  small  ravine. 
Behind  us  the  plain  of  Khan-i-Zinian  stretches 
its  green  levels,  until  the  mountain  cliffs  hem  it  in. 
Above  us  a  fortified  gendarmerie  post  perches  on  a 
crest  beside  the  road.  When  we  pass,  three  or 
four  gendarmes  line  up  and  salute;  the  head  and 
shoulders  of  another  show  above  the  tower  parapet, 
looking  too  big  for  the  tiny  tower — precisely  as 
figures  do  in  the  rude  images  of  early  art.  After 
a  little  the  road  enters  a  level  upland  then  turns 
suddenly,  revealing  the  plain  around  Dasht-i- 
Arzhan  far  below  us,  enclosed  by  hills  like  a 
flat-bottomed  bowl.  It  stretches  from  side  to 
side  without  an  undulation,  marbled  green  broken 
by  a  white  expanse,  and — far  away  near  one  edge 


One  Persian  Garden  Not  in  Ruins:     Bagh-i-Iram,  Shiraz 


Forecoxirt,  Bagh-i-Iram,  Shiraz 


The  Upper  End  of  the  Great  Alley,  Bftgh-i-Iram,  Shiriz 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  411 

— by  the  blue  surface  of  a  little  lake.  The  forma- 
tion of  the  nearest  hills  is  most  fantastic;  first  of 
all  a  series  of  gentle  slopes,  sparsely  covered  with 
trees  and  shrubs,  swell  outward  to  grasp  the  plain; 
this  is  interrupted  by  a  narrow  band  of  strata, 
acting  as  base  to  a  perpendicular  wall  of  rock, 
divided  vertically  by  great  rows  of  flutes  capped 
with  mounds  of  verdure.  On  the  opposite  side 
of  the  plain,  a  line  of  mountains  thinly  set  with 
trees  rises  toward  a  lofty  cliff,  all  but  meeting  the 
tremendous  wall  of  ruddy  rock,  curiously  scooped 
and  seamed,  which  towers  over  Dasht-i-Arzhan. 
Looking  down  from  here,  the  village  seems  a 
succession  of  brown  ledges  sloping  upward  from 
plain  to  cliff.  Just  beyond  it,  a  grove  stands  out 
against  the  rock  in  rounded  masses  of  green. 

A  long  descent  brings  us  to  the  telegraph- station, 
where  we  halt  an  hour  to  rest  and  breakfast.  In 
the  meanwhile,  clouds  of  mist  begin  to  drift 
through  the  gap  between  the  mountain  ranges 
that  hem  in  the  valley.  When  we  start  again, 
the  sky  is  overcast  and  threatening  storm.  We 
pass  through  the  coppice,  where  deep  grass  grows 
profusely  in  the  shade  of  splendid  trees.  Both 
hard  at  hand  and  across  the  plain,  narrow  water- 
falls leap  down  the  cliffs  in  white  streams.  From 
openings  like  fountains  in  the  base  of  the  sheer 
wall  of  ruddy  rock  beside  us,  water  gushes  forth 
and — after  falling  a  few  feet — runs  through  the 
grass  in  hurried  rills  of  clear  water.  Storm-clouds 
have  by  this  time  burst  through  the  mountain 


412     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

gap,  or  rushed  across  their  crests.  Rain  now 
descends  hard  and  fast;  it  is  unpleasantly  cold, 
and  not  at  all  the  weather  one  might  expect  in 
southern  Persia  on  the  first  of  May.  The  white 
chequers  seen  from  the  heights  before  reaching 
Dasht-i-Arzhan  prove  to  be  faintly  golden  fields 
of  dried  grain.  The  green  portions  of  the  plain 
are  broken  by  bright  yellow  patches,  where  a 
flower  like  the  buttercup  grows.  After  skirting 
the  mountains  on  two  sides  of  the  plateau,  the 
road — when  it  has  almost  reached  the  furthest 
point — turns  sharply  to  the  right,  ascending  the 
precipitous  mountain-side  in  long  zigzags. 

We  climb  through  a  forest  of  oak-trees,  with 
boughs  just  tipped  by  small  furry  leaves  of  yel- 
lowish green.  The  earth  is  red  but  almost  hid 
by  yellow  stones,  among  which  the  animals  pick 
their  way  with  great  difficulty,  the  ascent  being 
in  itself  steep  enough  to  fatigue.  As  we  mount, 
the  plain  spreads  its  wide  surface  below  us,  col- 
oured with  every  tone  of  grey,  green,  and  yellow, 
except  where  the  lake  reflects  the  mountain  face 
in  many- tinted  lines.  Far  away  higher  uplands 
and  distant  mountains  stand  out  clearly;  near 
at  hand  a  peak  spotted  with  snow  looms  above 
the  oaks.  Through  their  boughs,  I  can  see  the 
pack  animals  toil  and  twist  upward  with  a  merry 
chiming  of  their  bells.  Curiously  enough,  whilst 
the  rocks  beside  the  path  are  almost  red,  the 
larger  boulders  a  few  feet  further  off  are  bluish 
grey.     At  first,  small  mauve  flowers  and  a  kind 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  413 

of  buttercup  grew  infrequently  among  the  stones; 
as  we  near  the  summit,  the  ground  is  almost  con- 
cealed by  rows  of  a  large  flower  called  (I  believe) 
in  Persian,  the  Crown  Imperial.  Out  of  lush  and 
clustered  leaves,  a  tall  brown  stalk  rises  until 
terminated  by  a  smaller  whorl,  from  which  three 
or  four  bell-shaped  blossoms  depend,  bright  red 
spotted  with  blackish  purple  near  the  stem.  The 
rain  has  ceased  and  the  sky  begins  to  lighten;  I 
can  even  see  a  small  cliff  beetling  above  the  trees 
against  a  patch  of  intense  blue.  At  last,  after 
climbing  fourteen  hundred  feet  in  forty-five 
minutes,  we  reach  the  top — a  depression  in  the 
crests  seven  thousand  five  hundred  feet  above 
sea  level. 

We  are  now  about  to  descend  the  first  of  the 
celebrated  kutdls,  as  the  mountain  walls  between 
here  and  Bushir  are  called.  In  a  comparatively 
short  distance  the  land  drops  nearly  eight  thou- 
sand feet  from  this  point  to  the  sea — not  as  might 
be  expected,  in  a  continuous  slope,  but  in  one  of 
the  strangest  formations  existing  anywhere.  The 
Persian  plateau  is  reached  by  a  flight  of  titanesque 
steps.  A  few  miles  back  from  the  coast,  the  first 
range  of  mountains  ascends  precipitously  to  a  level 
plain,  beyond  which  another  gigantic  cliff  arises; 
altogether  there  are  four  of  these  nearly  perpen- 
dicular walls,  separated  each  from  the  other  by 
fertile  terraces  of  varying  widths,  but  none — I 
should  think — over  ten  or  fifteen  miles.  Persia 
— with  its  four  stupendous  terraces,   their  base 


414     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

laved  by  the  Persian  Gulf,  rising  skyward  to 
support  a  vast  plateau — is  really  the  immeasur- 
able ruin  of  a  hanging-garden,  such  as  was  once 
the  glory  of  Nineveh  or  Babylon,  only  wrought 
by  cosmic  force  in  more  than  human  proportion. 

One  of  the  most  remarkable  panoramas  I  have 
seen,  now  Hes  before  us.  Close  at  hand  a  pyramid 
of  bare  stone  towers  over  all,  sinking  toward  a 
long  spur  that  just  allows  one  glimpse  of  blue 
water  very  far  away  and  several  thousand  feet 
below.  In  front  of  us  the  kutnl  descends  abruptly. 
As  far  as  the  eye  can  reach,  it  looks  out  across  a 
sea  of  sharp  ridges  separated  by  strips  of  plain; 
their  peculiarity  is,  that  instead  of  rising  vertically 
with  more  or  less  equal  slopes  as  hills  usually  do, 
they  seem  to  slant  sharply  toward  the  coast,  like 
waves  solidified  when  just  on  the  point  of  toppling 
over,  or  like  a  house  of  cards  about  to  fall.  To 
convey  the  curious  effect  thus  produced,  is  impos- 
sible. The  nearest  range  is  covered  with  small  trees, 
between  which  the  buff  earth  shows  distinctly; 
but  those  farther  off  are  barren  and  eroded  in 
sweeping  lines.  We  descend  the  precipitous 
mountain-side  in  the  glare  of  a  now  blazing  sun. 
The  small  portions  of  ground  not  covered  by 
stones,  are  dry  and  almost  without  a  blade  of 
green.  Occasionally  a  Uttle  brook  murmurs  among 
the  boulders.  Even  the  trees  are  more  thinly 
scattered  than  on  the  other  slope,  the  whole  char- 
acter of  the  scenery  being  more  arid  and  southern. 

At   last   we   discover   Mian   Kutal    (Half-way 


A  Lateral  Alley,  B&gh-i-Iram,  Shiraz 


Bigb-i-Iram,  Shiriz 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  415 

Kutal)  far  below  us — a  ruinous  caravanserai 
half-way  up  the  kutdl  on  the  flat  top  of  a  hill- 
shoulder.  After  winding  between  large  boulders, 
where  springs  gush  out  and  then  leap  down  the 
slope,  we  reach  the  more  than  usually  unpleasant 

caravanserai 

Sunset  on  the  kutdl.  Behind  me  is  the  perpen- 
dicular mountain  we  descended  at  noon,  dotted 
with  trees,  but  none  the  less  in  general  effect  a  wall 
of  buff  turning  to  rose.  A  short  distance  in  front 
of  me,  the  hill  suddenly  drops  over  a  thousand 
feet  down  to  a  valley,  where  the  grey  line  of  a  river- 
bed meanders  through  scattered  trees.  On  its 
further  side  a  range  of  rock  slants  away,  its  crest 
sharply  waved,  and  its  steep  slope  ribbed  with 
long  flutes.  To  the  right  the  valley  widens,  until 
closed  by  mountains  of  darkest  violet.  West- 
ward the  sky  is  a  blaze  of  orange  fading  into  pale 
green,  and  then  rising  in  tones  of  ever  deeper  blue 
toward  the  zenith,  where  the  moon's  first  crescent 
floats,  chilly  white.  To  the  east  across  bare 
ridges,  a  cloud-bank  flushes  rose.  The  chirp  of 
crickets  fills  the  air;  from  the  hillside  behind  me, 

a  cuckoo's  solemn  chime  rings  out The 

light  is  dying.  Eastward  the  clouds  have  faded, 
and  are  now  all  but  lost  in  the  greenish  sky.  In 
the  west,  the  orange  glow  has  paled  and  spread 
out  in  a  faintly  yellow  luminosity,  melting  into 
tremulous  expanses  of  mauve,  through  which  the 
first  stars  begin  to  glimmer.  Overhead  the  now 
glittering   moon    appears   translucent.     A   goat, 


4i6     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

followed  by  her  kid,  strolls  along  the  caravanserai 
roof,  where  gendarmes  have  also  gathered.  A  pool 
of  water  in  the  valley  far  below  reflects  the  last 
rays,  glowing  like  fire;  near  it  two  or  three  real 
fires  begin  to  spangle  the  dark  green  shadows  with 
spots  of  gold.  On  the  hill-crest  high  above  me, 
an  inexplicable  flame  stands  out  against  the  dying 
sky;  can  it  be  a  brigand  camp?  Anything  is  pos- 
sible at  twilight  near  a  ruined  caravanserai  high 
on  a  Persian  hillside ;  but  the  hour  is  too  tranquil 
to  heed  or  care  for  aught,  as  peace  and  dreams  open 
ebumean  gates. 


May  2"^^ 
Day  is  breaking  when  we  leave  before  five 
o'clock.  The  steepest  of  paths  leads  down  the 
kutdl  we  half  descended  yesterday,  among  bould- 
ers and  loose  stones,  which  make  the  mules'  work 
very  difficult.  Oaks  grow  on  all  sides,  but  far 
apart  in  ground  entirely  covered  with  rocks. 
Flaming  clouds  float  across  the  sk}^  as  the  light 
loses  its  early  pallor  and  turns  live  gold.  We  soon 
reach  the  level — fifteen  hundred  feet  below  Mian 
Kutal — and  find  ourselves  in  a  fertile  valley. 
Oaks  are  frequent,  and  fields  of  grain  still  sparkling 
with  dew  cover  the  earth.  Occasionally  we  pass 
white  fields  of  opium-poppies,  pale  and  dreamy. 
On  all  sides  are  high  hills  sparsely  covered  with 
trees,  above  which  the  sun  has  just  begun  to  pour 
glowing  rays  that  fill  the  valley  with  golden  haze. 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  417 

The  road  now  turns  down  a  gorge  to  the  left. 
After  a  little,  I  can  see  a  distant  ridge  crossing  the 
narrow  valley-mouth,  and  beyond  that  a  plain 
with  one  end  of  a  blue  lake  many  hundred  feet 
below.  Knowing  that  the  Kutal-i-Dukhtar  (the 
Daughter's  Pass)  lies  between  us  and  Kazarun, 
I  suppose  that  we  must  climb  this  ridge  and  then 
descend.  Our  path  now  slopes  downward  around 
a  shoulder,  looping  back  upon  itself,  and  over- 
hanging the  plain.  This  constant  gazing  down 
immea  urable  heights,  makes  one  feel  as  though 
standing  on  the  balconies  of  the  world,  looking 
out  across  space.  At  this  spot  I  realise  that  the 
famous  kutdl  must  be  the  side  of  the  mountain 
upon  whose  top  we  now  are,  but  cannot  imagine 
how  we  are  to  descend.  A  donkey's  carcass  in  a 
state  of  liquid  putrefaction  lies  among  the  stones 
a  few  feet  off  the  road,  emitting  so  intolerable  a 
stench  we  are  almost  sickened. 

A  few  hundred  yards  more,  and  the  manner  of 
our  descent  at  last  becomes  clear.  The  lofty  hill 
over  whose  sharp  edge  I  am  peering,  is  a  sort  of 
headland  at  the  extremity  of  a  vast  semicircle 
of  rufous  and  almost  perpendicular  cliffs.  On  the 
vertical  face  of  a  rocky  wall  seven  hundred  feet 
high,  a  pathway  has  been  cut,  just  wide  enough 
for  two  mules  to  pass  with  their  loads,  and  paved 
with  cobble-stones  between  which  large  holes 
have  been  worn.  A  continuous  slope  being  of 
course  impossible,  it  winds  up  in  a  series  of  short 
but  very  steep  zigzags,  one  over  the  other — just 
27 


41 8     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULP 

as  a  rude  stairway  might  ascend  a  terrace  front 
of  gigantic  proportions.  Caravan  after  caravan 
of  diminutive  donkeys,  carrying  burdens  larger 
than  themselves,  is  toiling  painfully  upward.  As 
we  start  down,  the  cries  of  muleteers  float  up 
incessantly,  re-echoing  from  the  cliffs.  Here  we 
are  in  shade,  but  in  front  of  us  everything  is  yellow 
with  sun-flood.  This  incredible  staircase,  thronged 
with  weary  animals,  and  echoing  with  cries  from 
top  to  bottom  of  its  dizzy  height,  is  as  fantastic 
a  sight  as  man  could  imagine. 

We  have  gone  only  a  few  feet,  when  Said  calls 
to  Mrs.  D.  and  me  to  take  a  rough  path  around 
some  rocks,  in  order  to  avoid  the  sight  of  more 
carrion;  but  it  cannot  be  escaped.  It  is  another 
tiny  donkey,  that  must  have  dropped  head  fore- 
most on  the  way  down;  for  its  head  and  neck  are 
doubled  under,  and  completely  hidden  by  the 
body.  A  child  could  have  lifted  the  poor  creature 
into  a  less  tortured  posture,  but  there  the  Persians 
left  it  to  agonise.  There  are  moments  when  the 
sight  of  all  this  suffering  and  indifference  fills  me 
with  such  rage  and  disgust,  I  "see  red."  At  last 
we  reach  the  bottom,  and  start  down  a  gentle  but 
still  stony  declivity.  On  the  kutdl  wild  carnations 
grew;  here  among  the  roadside-boulders  there 
are  fuzzy  bushes  with  small  flowers,  white  and 
bell-shaped,  with  tiny  lavender  weeds  actually 
entangled  in  the  lower  branches. 

We  have  now  reached  the  level,  and,  after 
rounding  the  last  spur  of  the  great  hemicycle  of 


Mills  Outside  Shiraz 


Chinar-i-Rahdar 
The  crowd  watching  our  caravan  start  for  Bushir 


:>-  >-. 


One  of  Our  Escort,  'Ali  Khan,  Descending  a  Kutal 


View  from  a  Kutfil  Looking  Down  on  the  Caravanserai  of  Mian  Kutil 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  419 

cliffs,  find  ourselves  in  the  cultivated  plain  of 
Kazarun.  A  large  tablet  is  cut  in  the  rock,  but 
appears  modem  and  without  interest.  To  the 
left  a  lake,  silvery  blue  and  dotted  with  a  few 
islets  without  vegetation,  stretches  away  until 
lost  to  sight  around  a  bend  in  the  mountains. 
Across  the  valley  is  another  range  of  hills,  bare 
and  seamed.  Turning  sharply  to  the  right,  we 
move  westward  across  a  stone  causeway  in  the 
middle  of  a  marshy  pool  full  of  fish ;  on  either  hand, 
tall  thick  clumps  of  sedge  are  hung  with  the  white 
trumpets  of  morning-glory  vines.  The  road  now 
passes  between  high  grain  covering  all  the  valley- 
floor,  except  where  interrupted  by  fields  of  very 
tall  opium-poppies.  To  my  disgust,  I  find  that 
Kazarun  is  still  two  farsakhs  away. 

As  this  valley  has  recently  been  the  site  of 
much  fighting,  and  is  still  the  haunt  of  brigands, 
our  captain  divides  his  ten  men  into  two  columns, 
which  he  heads  rifle  in  hand,  as  they  ride  single 
file  through  the  grain  on  either  side  of  the  road, — 
rather  a  picturesque  sight.  As  we  approach 
Kazarun,  there  are  orchards  of  pomegranate  trees, 
covered  with  small  trumpets  of  the  brightest  ver- 
milion. ^Along  the  roadside  runs  a  rude  attempt 
at  fences  (the  first  I  have  seen  in  Persia)  made  of 
thorn  bushes. 

The  poppy  fields  are  now  more  numerous,  and 
the  plants  so  tall  they  reach  the  shoulders  of  the 
men  engaged  in  scraping  the  huge  seed-capsules 
to  let  the  opium  exude.     Women  and  girls — half 


420     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

naked  under  their  dust-coloured  rags — are  at 
work  among  the  golden  grain.  A  grove  of  date- 
palms  is  now  in  sight,  one  of  the  gardens  for  which 
this  place  is  famed;  it  is  a  walled  enclosure  ap- 
parently solid  with  verdure,  out  of  which  the  long 
trunks  and  clustered  leaves  of  the  palms  emerge. 

The  town  is  visible  at  last, — low  mud  houses 
interspersed  with  date  trees.  The  gardens  are 
scattered  over  the  plain  in  green  squares.  As  we 
ride  through  the  streets,  we  pass  the  ruins  of  house 
after  house,  blown  up  by  gendarmes  after  the  at- 
tack in  which  their  Swedish  commandant  was 
killed.  Poor  people!  first  the  brigands  pillage 
them,  then  retire,  leaving  the  more  or  less  innocent 
to  be  punished  for  the  misdeeds  of  others.  Here 
there  is  a  pleasant  but  fortified  telegraph-station, 
filled  with  little  holes  where  attacking  bullets 
have  recently  struck.  As  there  is  only  one  vacant 
room,  Major  T. — the  Swedish  officer  in  command 
of  the  gendarmes — very  kindly  offers  to  put  me 
up.  Were  it  not  for  the  kindness  which  every 
European  shows  to  travellers  in  Persia,  their  lot 
would  be  intolerable.  The  telegraph-inspector 
and  the  operator  have  an  excellent  luncheon  ready 
and  do  everything  to  make  Kazarun  agreeable. 
In  Major  T.'s  house,  there  is  a  boy  of  eight  or 
nine  years,  recovering  from  a  gun-shot  wound 
received  some  months  ago,  while  bringing  the 
gendarmes  a  message.  I  am  eager  to  visit  the 
famous  bas-reliefs  at  Shapur,  a  few  miles  across 
the  plain ;  but  the  British  Consul  at  Shiraz  strongly 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  421 

opposed  my  attempting  it,  and  now  the  Major 
tells  me  that  if  I  insist  on  doing  so,  he  will  not 
answer  for  our  safety,  even  with  the  gendarmes 
whom  he  has  ordered  to  reinforce  our  escort  to- 
morrow. Only  last  week  nine  of  his  men  were 
killed  here  in  a  fight  with  brigands.  As  I  am 
travelling  with  a  lady,  Shapur  must  perforce 
remain  tmvisited. 


May  3"^ 
At  half-past  three  I  am  waked  by  the  bells  of 
our  mules,  entering  the  court  to  take  their  loads. 
When  dressed  I  walk  to  the  telegraph-station  to 
breakfast  with  Mrs.  D.  The  guards  had  to  be 
warned  last  evening  of  my  coming,  as  they  have 
orders  to  fire  at  the  slightest  sound  during  the 
night.  It  is  broad  day  when  we  start,  with  four 
extra  gendarmes  as  well  as  our  usual  escort  of 
soldiers.  The  masses  of  foliage  which  seem  to 
burst  from  the  garden-walls  we  pass,  are  jewel- 
like in  the  intensity  and  richness  of  their  greens. 
We  continue  down  the  valley,  which  here  differs 
in  no  respect  from  the  upper  end.  Our  escort 
divides  into  groups,  riding  off  through  the  fields 
in  every  direction  to  reconnoitre.  Major  T.  soon 
overtakes  us,  on  his  way  to  inspect  the  gendarmerie 
posts,  which  are  here  quite  close  to  one  another. 
That  they  can  protect  the  road  is  obvious;  but 
what  a  few  armed  foot-soldiers  can  do  to  subdue 
large  bands  of  mounted  robbers,  I  cannot  see. 


422     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

I  have  been  told  that  last  week  the  gendarmes 
surrounded  the  famous  chief  who  has  caused  so 
much  trouble,  and  might  have  captured  him,  had 
they  not  been  too  busy  looting.  They  are  also 
said  to  be  such  liars  and  cowards  that,  unless  they 
produce  the  bodies  (which  as  yet  they  have  not 
done),  their  officers  cannot  believe  them  when 
they  report  nocturnal  attacks  repulsed  with 
several  men  killed,  but  carried  off  by  the  remain- 
ing brigands. 

We  are  now  nearing  the  valley-end,  where  there 
is  an  unusually  large  fort.  The  stench  of  carrion 
grows  stronger  every  minute,  until,  on  reaching 
the  fort,  the  cause  becomes  evident:  the  skinned 
carcasses  of  two  camels  are  lying,  bloody  and 
rotten,  not  two  hundred  yards  from  the  gate;  yet 
the  gendarmes  have  made  no  attempt  to  remove 
them.  The  walls  in  this  case  do  show  recent 
traces  of  bullets.  On  a  hill-crest  dominating  the 
valley,  a  Uttle  flag  attracts  attention  to  a  sentinel's 
tent.  Here  we  bid  good-bye  to  the  courteous 
and  very  interesting  Swedish  officer,  who  must 
sometimes  wonder  what  he  and  his  comrades  can 
accomplish  in  this  impossible  country,  where  they 
are  shot  down,  while  their  work  disappears  like 
sand-castles  before  waves. 

After  leaving  the  plains  of  Kazariin  by  a  lateral 
valley,  the  road  soon  enters  the  Tang-i-Turkan 
— an  extremely  narrow  gorge  winding  between 
high  walls  of  blackened  rock,  to  which  patches  of 
reddish  earth  adhere,  offering  root-hold  to  many 


TEC-AET  STUDIOS,  Inc. 


Women  Travelling  in  Kajawas 


Our  Caravan  and  Escort  Passing  a  Gendarmerie  Post  near  Kazarun 
Travel  in  this  district  is  still  dangerous  and  a  sentinel  is  on  watch  at  every  post  of 

gendarmes 


"^-f-'-ry-v 


The  Kutal-i-Mihr 
The  zig-zag  line  in  the  centre  is  the  path  down  the  pre- 
cipitous clifif.      Thus  the  situation  makes  it  impossible  to 
take  a  photograph  of  any  of  the  Kutals  which  shall  give 
an  idea  of  their  peculiarities 


A  Woman  Churning  on  the  Road  to  Kahna  Takhti 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  423 

shrubs.  In  some  places  the  distance  from  side 
to  side  is  so  small,  it  would  almost  be  possible  to 
touch  both  of  them  with  outstretched  arms.  The 
heat  in  this  defile  is  unpleasant.  The  track 
ascends  steadily,  twisting  in  and  out  among  boul- 
ders and  crevices,  which  render  the  animals'  pro- 
gress very  difficult.  Then,  after  sinking  again, 
the  gorge  widens  as  we  emerge  on  a  plain,  with 
Kamarij  nestling  under  the  hills  on  the  further 
side.  This  valley  is  fertile  but  smaller  than  that 
of  Kazarun,  and  entirely  girdled  by  blackish 
purple  mountains,  spotted  with  brown  or  rose- 
grey  earth. 

When  we  reach  the  village,  the  lodgings  are  as 
usual  filthy  and  in  ruin.  My  room  is  on  a  court 
filled  with  noisy  men,  women,  and  babies,  not  to 
mention  my  omnipresent  enemies — the  cats. 
Thanks  to  the  servants  and  provisions  which 
Mrs.  B.  sent  with  us  from  Shiraz,  we  have  many 
comforts;  but  eating  is  difficult  when,  from  the 
table,  there  is  a  clear  view  of  a  horse's  bloated 
carcass,  with  a  lean  white  dog  tearing  flesh  from 
its  bleeding  ribs;  and  the  room  is  alive  with  flies 
that  have  just  been  walking  over  filth  and  carrion. 
The  privations  of  rough  camping  would  be  lux- 
urious, compared  with  the  horrors  of  this  semi- 
civilised  country,  where  one  lodges  in  squalor 
among  dung  and  putrefaction 

Night  and  feeble  moonlight.  In  one  comer 
of  the  courtyard  a  woman  is  cooking  something  in 
a  pot,  stirring  it  with  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 


424     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

holding  a  burning  brand  to  give  her  light.  A  man 
squats  before  a  large  coffer,  while  a  woman  emerges 
from  a  dark  room,  carrying  a  lighted  candle  in 
either  hand — her  arms  held  out  from  her  sides 
with  the  pose  of  a  tragic  actress.  On  a  low  plat- 
form, in  the  opposite  comer  near  a  fire  of  small 
branches,  a  child  lies  on  a  rug  beside  its  mother, 
wailing  for  the  breast.  The  woman  is  seated  on 
the  ground,  with  a  long  veil  hanging  from  her  head, 
outlined  against  the  flame,  nursing  her  child  like 
a  madonna.  Only  a  cricket  is  to  be  heard,  and — 
from  behind  a  partition — the  breathing  of  cows 
and  the  munching  of  mules.  Moon  and  firelight 
mingle  in  a  curious  glow,  warm  but  pale. 


May  4*.^ 
At  a  quarter  before  three  in  the  morning,  the 
half -moon  has  set,  and  there  is  no  sign  of  dawn. 
Across  the  unlighted  sky  a  falling  star  has  just 
shot  through  the  constellations,  leaving  a  golden 
trail.  When  the  caravan  is  ready,  there  is  just 
light  enough  to  find  our  way  dimly  between  the 
grain  fields,  as  the  darkness  repedes  and  the  stars 
go  out.  We  wind  around,  then  up  the  hills  which 
enclose  the  valley,  finding  ourselves  at  the 
entrance  to  the  Kutal-i-Kamarij  before  the  sun  has 
risen,  but  just  when  full  day  has  come. 

This  is  reputed  the  most  difficult  kutdl  in  all 
Persia,  and  has  long  excited  my  curiosity.  At 
first  the  track  descends  a  narrow  defile,  where  a 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  425 

few  oleander  bushes  with  pink  blossoms,  which 
grow  beside  a  clear  rivulet,  are  the  only  living 
things  in  sight;  everything  else  is  bare  and  dry 
like  ancient  bones.  The  mules  pick  their  way 
with  difficulty  through  the  crevices  between 
boulders.  There  are  some  sharp  descents  in  the 
path,  but  no  signs  of  the  precipices  and  other 
perils  of  which  I  read.  Just  as  this  thought  begins 
to  perplex,  the  gorge  suddenly  widens,  revealing 
the  real  kutdl.  At  this  point  the  two  sides  of  the 
valley  spread  apart,  while  what  has  heretofore 
been  the  bed  of  the  stream  stops  short  at  the  edge 
of  a  slanting  cliff,  down  which  the  water  is  preci- 
pitated, among  green  stains  and  small  shrubs,  to 
another  valley  over  twelve  hundred  feet  below. 
A  more  startling  view  I  have  never  seen. 

Down  the  almost  vertical  face  of  the  mountain, 
a  narrow  path  descending  in  short  loops,  has  been 
worn  and  built.  At  times  it  twists  down  the  side 
of  the  cliff,  at  others  passes  out  onto  buttress-like 
projections,  where  it  resembles  the  rude  termina- 
tion of  a  spiral  staircase.  Standing  a  few  feet 
to  one  side  of  the  trail,  I  find  myself  on  the  edge 
of  the  chasm,  looking  straight  down  incalculable 
heights  to  the  foaming  river  in  the  valley  far 
below.  Opposite,  but  very  close,  towers  a  bare 
pointed  peak,  grey-blue  and — like  all  the  colours 
in  sight — metallic  as  though  produced  by  the 
action  of  acid.  Centuries  of  water  rushing  down 
its  flanks,  have  hollowed  out  a  series  of  curved 
channels  separated  by  long  ribs,  in  whose  sharp 


426      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

edges  the  different  layers  are  clearly  visible.  These 
ribs  sweep  from  the  pointed  summit  down  to  the 
base  like  vast  sinews,  spreading  out  as  they  de- 
scend. They  seem  immutably  to  support  the 
mountain,  conveying  a  sense  of  organic  force  only 
perceptible  in  nature's  grandest  work.  The  nobil- 
ity of  these  sweeping  lines  a  master's  drawing 
might  faintly  convey,  but  words  cannot  even  sug- 
gest it.  Their  effect  (one  never  found  in  human 
work)  deserves  the  term  sublime,  since  with 
beauty  it  mingles  strangeness  and  awe.  The 
valley  which  Ues  so  far  below,  between  this  mount- 
ain and  the  cliff  on  whose  side  I  am  standing,  is 
no  more  than  a  hemicycle  in  the  side  of  a  wider 
one,  bounded  by  a  low  range,  slate-coloured  and 
sharply  inclined  coastward.  Beyond  it  rises  a 
tawny  ridge,  over  which  the  flat  top  of  a  distant 
mountain  just  shows  in  deep  misty  blue.  The 
light  is  already  clear,  but  the  colours  cold  and 
dead,  since  the  sun-rays  have  not  yet  plunged 
across  the  peaks  into  the  shaded  valley  above 
which  we  seem  suspended.  Of  vegetation  there 
are  but  few  signs ;  of  life  and  sound — none.  Noth- 
ing to  be  seen  but  the  majestic  forms  wrought  by 
cosmic  evolution.  Standing  on  this  cliff  edge, 
looking  out  over  space  toward  lifeless  summits  in 
the  chill  light  of  early  dawn, — awe  steals  over  me 
as  though  I  had  slipped  unawares  into  the  pre- 
cincts of  some  supersensual  fane 

The  mules  have  started  down,  and  as  we  follow 
on  foot  (riding  is  too  dangerous)  I  can  see  them 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  427 

wind  down  after  our  soldiers,  who  are  leading 
their  horses.  At  times  the  path  worn  through 
the  rocks,  is  so  narrow  two  animals  could  not 
possibly  pass.  As  we  clamber  down — jumping 
from  stone  to  stone — it  turns  gradually,  entering 
the  main  valley.  Over  the  nearer  chains  we  catch 
glimpses  of  higher  summits,  far  distant  and  rosy 
with  the  sun-rays  they  have  been  the  first  to 
catch.  Suddenly  a  ragged  Kashghar  (a  nomad 
tribe),  who  has  overtaken  us  and  passed  ahead, 
begins  to  gesticulate  violently  and  utter  piercing 
screams  in  which  one  word  frequently  recurs. 
Our  dapper  captain  rushes  up  to  him,  then  shouts 
down  to  his  men — almost  out  of  sight  among  the 
rocks  below.  He  tells  us  that  the  man  is  making 
an  outcry  because  one  of  our  escort  has  stolen  a 
cone  of  sugar  from  him.  In  a  few  moments  a 
soldier  climbs  up  to  return  his  comrade's  booty,  but 
the  incident  is  not  ended.  When  we  reach  the 
bottom  of  our  cliff -cut  stairway,  without  accident 
or  loss  of  luggage  over  precipices,  the  soldiers 
are  waiting  beside  their  horses  in  a  narrow  gully, 
through  which  there  is  just  room  to  pass  beside 
the  stream.  The  culprit  having  already  been  laid 
on  a  rock,  the  officer  and  one  of  his  men  proceed 
to  thrash  him  with  riding  whips.  They  lay  on 
the  blows  with  all  their  might,  while  the  man 
screams  and  wriggles;  as  he  has  all  his  clothes, 
including  a  thick  overcoat,  he  cannot  really  feel 
much  pain.  A  few  months  ago,  I  should  have 
thought  it  impossible  to  see  a  man  flogged  with- 


428     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

out  attempting  to  stop  it.  To-day  I  feel  no  sym- 
pathy, only  approval  of  his  pimishment  and  regret 
that  it  should  be  so  light.  These  wretched  soldiers 
do  not  steal  from  the  rich — driven  perhaps  by 
necessity — so  much  as  from  starving  peasants, 
from  whom  they  take  by  force  whatever  they 
chance  to  wish.  Being  impervious  to  reproofs  or 
example,  only  pain  can  deter  them. 

After  this  little  incident,  we  continue  dov^Ti  the 
now  slightly  descending  valley.  Behind  us,  the 
slaty-blue  chains  of  rock  have  closed  in,  hiding 
the  gorge  we  left  so  far  above  us,  hiding  even  that 
wonderful  ribbed  mountain.  They  are  still  in 
shade,  but — to  the  left — sun  lies  on  the  second 
rosy  yellow  ranges,  slowly  moving  down  their 
flanks,  driving  shadows  before  it.  We  are  again 
changing  direction,  moving  down  a  wider  gorge 
intersected  by  thin  walls  of  rock,  through  which 
the  stream  has  cut  openings  just  wide  enough  to 
let  us  pass.  The  inevitable  body  of  a  poor  don- 
key lies  half  in  the  water,  as  we  enter  one  of  these 
cliffs.  For  some  minutes  the  sound  of  rushing 
water  has  steadily  grown  louder;  of  a  sudden  we 
come  out  on  the  high  bank  of  a  wide  but  shallow 
stream,  dashing  over  hidden  rocks  in  little  waves 
that  fill  the  air  with  their  babble.  The  river 
sweeps  away  in  a  wide  semicircle,  which  we  follow 
among  boulders  high  up  on  a  hillside  overhanging 
the  water.  In  a  cove  where  the  hills  recede,  a 
small  village  and  a  gendarmerie  post  lie  in  the 
morning  sun,  misty  with  smoke.     In  front  of  a 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHiR  429 

wattled  shed  close  to  the  road,  a  woman  is  making 
butter  in  a  curiously  primitive  churn.  From  a 
horizontal  stick,  supported  at  either  end  by  crossed 
poles,  a  skin  sewed  into  a  rude  sack  is  hung.  This 
is  filled  with  milk,  and  swings  backwards  and 
forwards,  until  butter  forms.  A  similar  device 
was  probably  employed  in  Achasmenian  times, 
surviving  to  this  day  but  little  changed. 

We  soon  leave  the  river  by  an  incline  to  the 
left,  from  whose  summit  another  plain  is  visible, 
spreading  across  to  another  kutdl.  It  is  dotted 
with  green  squares — groves  of  date  palms  cluster- 
ing round  a  few  clay  houses.  We  are  now  near 
the  bottom  of  Persia's  world-wall,  where  fertile 
valleys  lie  like  terraces  between  parallel  lines  of 
mountains,  sloping  south-eastward  as  far  as  India. 
It  seems  afternoon,  but  is  only  a  half  after  eight 
o'clock  when  we  reach  the  telegraph  rest-house 
at  Konar  Takhti,  where  we  are  to  wait  imtil  mid- 
day before  starting  for  Dalaki.  The  weather  is 
surprisingly  cool  for  the  place  and  time  of  year, 
and  the  telegraph-compound  a  pleasant  spot,  its 
few  acacias  musical  with  twittering  birds.  It 
would  be  altogether  comfortable  were  it  not  for 
innumerable  flies,  always  loathsome,  but  in  a  land 
of  disease  and  carrion  doubly  so. 

At  half  past  one  we  start  again;  fortunately  a 
strong  breeze  pleasantly  tempers  the  heat.  Our 
way  leads  across  the  narrow  valley  toward  the  hills. 
On  either  side  of  us  are  fields  of  ripe  grain,  where 
large  insects — not  locusts — can  be  seen  clinging 


430     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

to  the  golden  stalks  as  they  sway  back  and  forth. 
Straw-coloured  grasshoppers,  as  big  as  humming 
birds,  jump  across  the  road  or  whizz  through  the 
air.  Before  long  we  mount  a  little  crest,  and  then 
descend  to  a  gravelly  valley.  I  shall  never  grow 
used  to  the  surprises  these  kutdls  reserve  for 
travellers.  There  is  nothing  about  this  path  in 
any  way  different  from  a  thousand  other  hillsides; 
I  am  thinking  what  tremendous  imagination  (to 
put  it  politely)  Loti  and  other  travellers  must 
have  used  in  their  description  of  the  ascent,  when 
the  valley  plays  the  old  trick  of  stopping  short 
at  the  brink  of  a  precipice.  Passing  round  a  heap 
of  boulders,  I  discover  a  vast  ravine,  lying  hun- 
dreds and  hundreds  of  feet  below  at  the  base  of  a 
perpendicular  wall  of  rock,  on  whose  edge  we  are 
perched.  This  is  the  real  Kutal-i-Malu — the 
Hare's  or  the  Cursed  Pass — to  which  the  little 
valley  we  have  just  descended  was  merely  an 
approach. 

Two  parallel  ranges  of  high  mountains,  entirely 
without  vegetation,  enclose  the  valley  into  which 
I  am  peering,  their  summits  on  a  level  with  my 
feet.  Egress  from  it  appears  barred  by  another 
line  of  mountains  crossing  its  further  end ; — peaked 
masses  of  olive-green,  in  places  almost  black, 
below  which  are  foot-hills  wrought  and  wrinkled 
in  fantastic  shapes,  whose  variety  never  ceases 
to  interest.  These  views — standing  on  precipice 
edges — looking  over  wide  spaces  or  down  dizzy 
distances  into  wild  ravines,  exhilarate  as  nothing 


The  Peaks  above  the  Dalaki  River  near  the  Kutal-i-Mihr 


The  Dalaki  River  near  the  Kutal-i-Mihr 


A  Sentinel  on  the  Roof  of  a  Gendarmerie  Post  Guarding  a  Bridge  over  the  Dalaki  River 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  431 

else   can   do We  now   start   down   the 

kutdl  on  foot,  following  the  mules,  who  take  each 
step  very  slowly  after  deliberately  searching  with 
one  leg  for  foothold.  The  path  twists  back  and 
forth  to  make  descent  possible,  over  painful  stones 
between  high  piles  of  rock.  Half-way  down  it  is 
continued  by  a  cork-screw  stairway,  built  with 
parapets  and  paved  with  cobbles.  These  the 
chdrwdddrs  evidently  think  too  slippery  for  their 
animals,  since  they  lead  them  over  a  steep  path 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  gully  down  which  we 
are  climbing.  The  bottom  has  now  been  reached; 
it  has  been  a  toilsome  and  certainly  most  precipi- 
tous descent,  but  has  not  seemed  very  remarkable. 
I  am  wondering  why  celebrated  travellers  have 
made  such  a  pother  about  it,  when  I  happen  to 
stop  and  look  back ;  then  I  realise  what  an  impres- 
sion this  kutdl  must  make  on  persons  moving 
up  toward  it.  The  valley  appears  without  issue, 
absolutely  sealed  by  a  perpendicular  wall  of  tawny 
rock  tracing  a  jagged  line  across  the  bright  blue 
sky.  Just  as  Loti  says,  there  seems  to  be  no 
possible  means  of  ascent;  even  when  the  track 
we  have  just  descended  is  visible,  it  looks  like  no- 
thing more  than  a  jagged  line  traced  on  a  sheer 
mountain-side,  up  which  no  living  thing  could 
possib'y  climb.  Such  a  view  might  easily  alarm, 
as  well  as  astonish,  ascending  travellers. 

Advancing  along  a  nearly  level  track,  the  mount- 
ains which  seemed  to  bar  our  egress,  prove  to  be 
on  the  opposite  side  of  a  much  wider  valley,  situ- 


432      MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

ated  at  right  angles  to  the  one  we  are  now  passing 
through.  The  road  turns  insensibly,  leading  out 
into  the  broader  valley,  which  is  cleft  in  the  centre 
by  a  deep  gorge  with  perpendicular  walls.  At 
the  bottom,  several  hundred  feet  below  the  ledge 
where  our  path  skirts  the  chasm  verge,  the  Dalaki 
River  rushes  by,  foaming  like  liquid  aquamarine. 
Contrasting  strongly  with  the  deep  velvet  green 
of  the  mountains  in  shade  across  the  valley,  two 
eroded  and  very  jagged  peaks  rise  to  the  left  in 
full  sunlight,  dominating  the  scene  with  their 
barren  yellow  pyramids  of  rock  and  earth,  which 
in  more  ravaged  portions  are  rose-coloured;  for 
in  Persia  at  certain  hours  every  part  of  the  land- 
scape seems  tinged  with  pink.  It  is  difficult  to 
convey  the  curious  impression  produced  on  look- 
ing, first  down  the  chasm  to  the  swirling  stream, 
then  up  to  the  bright  bare  peaks,  which,  in  sun  so 
far  above,  loom  in  the  sky. 

From  this  point  the  path  twists  along,  now 
nearer,  now  further  from  the  edge  of  the  ravine, 
descending  all  the  while,  until,  on  reaching  the 
river  level,  it  passes  along  a  very  narrow  ledge 
between  the  hills  and  the  stream.  As  the  water 
is  in  these  parts  impregnated  with  sulphur,  I  had 
supposed  the  river  to  be  the  cause  of  an  evil  stench 
growing  steadily  stronger;  but  the  far  decayed 
body  of  another  donkey  soon  proves  to  be  its 
origin.  A  fine  bridge — probably  built  under 
Shah  'Abbas,  since  everything  solid  seems  to 
date  from  his  reign — spans  the  river,  its  approach 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  433 

guarded  by  partly  ruined  fortifications.  On  top 
of  the  tower  an  armed  gendarme  is  as  usual  posted 
beside  the  flag,  watching  the  road.  These  for- 
tified posts,  with  their  sentinel  outlined  against 
the  sky,  give  the  country  a  peculiar  mediaeval  air, 
reminding  one  how  unsettled  it  really  is.  A  short 
way  beyond  the  bridge,  a  clear  brook  descends 
directly  from  hills  without  any  signs  of  habita- 
tion; so  its  water  seems  safe  to  drink.  It  is  the 
first  draught  of  unboiled  water  I  have  had  in 
four  months,  and  tastes  more  delicious  than  any 
wine.  A  few  moments  later  the  road  quits  the 
river-bank,  and  to  my  great  surprise  enters  a 
gorge,  which  the  setting  sun  has  left  entirely  in 
shade.  I  had  understood  that  there  were  no  more 
passes,  and  expected  to  follow  the  stream  out  into 
coast-lands.  We  climb  and  climb,  each  rise 
showing  our  weary  eyes  a  further  ascent  instead 
of  the  plain.  Just  when  there  seems  to  be  no  end 
to  these  barren  rocks,  we  suddenly  emerge  from 
the  ravine,  with  a  boundless  expanse  of  level  green 
lying  far  below  us,  dotted  with  palms  growing 
beside  the  river  we  left  behind  us  in  the  valley. 
As  we  descend,  the  sun  is  just  touching  the  horizon 
toward  which  the  plain  stretches  like  a  solid  sea 
of  emerald. 

It  is  neither  a  beautiful  nor  a  striking  view,  but 
few  scenes  have  ever  pleased  me  more,  since  it 
tells  me  that  my  very  disappointing  journey 
through  Persia  is  nearly  ended,  and  escape  across 
the  not  far  distant  gulf  at  last  possible.     Rounding 

88 


434     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

a  mountain  spur,  Dalaki  comes  into  sight,  nestling 
at  the  foot  of  the  hills  in  a  grove  of  spreading 
palm-trees.  A  horrid  stench  of  sulphur  grows 
stronger  the  nearer  we  approach.  When  we 
arrive,  moonlight  has  all  but  vanquished  the  last 
rays  of  sun.  The  lodging-place  is  very  bad  indeed, 
with  only  one  room  at  all  possible.  Giving  orders 
that  the  luggage  shall  not  be  unloaded  until  my 
return,  I  start  out  to  see  if  there  is  nothing  to  be 
had  at  the  gendarmerie.  I  discover  a  decent 
room,  but  on  going  back  to  have  my  kit  brought 
over,  find  that  the  chdrwdddrs  have  dropped  every- 
thing in  the  middle  of  a  court  filled  with  manure. 
Unless  I  wish  to  wait  an  hour,  while  it  is  being 
reloaded,  there  is  nothing  to  do  but  take  posses- 
sion of  a  small  cavern  opening  on  a  little  terrace 
two  feet  above  the  unspeakable  courtyard. 
Thrashing  the  muleteers  is  only  an  act  of  justice, 
but  does  not  help  matters.  The  air  is  stifling 
and  filled  with  mosquitoes ;  the  stench  of  sulphur 
enough  to  asphyxiate.  Seated  on  the  end  of  a 
valise,  sweltering  on  the  moon-lit  terrace,  as  I 
watch  Said  struggle  with  the  luggage  pitched  in 
hopeless  confusion  in  the  midst  of  dirt  and  dung; 
I  try  to  take  a  swallow  of  what  ought  to  be  wine 
and  water,  and  get  a  nauseating  mouthful  of  warm 
cooking  grease  from  a  bottle  the  cook  has  had 
the  impudence  to  place  in  my  own  saddle-bag. 
Only  a  sense  of  humour  stands  between  me  and 
desperation.  How  my  travelling  companion, 
Mrs.   D.,   can   stand  the  hardships  and  annoy- 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  435 

ances  of  such  a  journey  with  equanimity,  I  can 
admire  but  hardly  understand.  Personally,  it 
seems  to  me  as  though  the  few  hours  separating 
me  from  the  boat  to  India  were  more  than  I  could 
bear. 


May  5^** 
Even  with  wide-open  doors,  my  room  was  suf- 
focating last  night,  and  mosquitoes  devoured 
what  parts  fleas  had  spared  the  night  before.  A 
strange  noise  on  the  floor  aroused  me;  investiga- 
tion by  candle-light  discovered  on  the  ceiling, 
near  the  head  of  my  bed,  a  swallow's  nest  from 
which  droppings  fell  regularly.  After  three  or 
four  hours  of  harassed  sleep,  I  rose  at  half-past 
two,  but  it  was  past  four  o'clock  when  we  got 
under  way.  Now  as  we  crawl  along  the  road  to 
Borasjan,  the  overpowering  stench  of  sulphur 
nauseates  me.  From  time  to  time,  we  are  forced 
to  ford  pools  of  oily  black  water  streaked  with 
green.  As  the  sun  rises,  the  heat  becomes  unpleas- 
ant. The  road  goes  up  and  down  ugly  undula- 
tions in  an  interminable  plain  of  bare  yellowish 
grey  earth.  How  hateful  and  wearisome  it  is! 
This  wretched  country  shows  itself  in  its  most 
unlovely  aspect  these  last  days.  Minutes  drag 
along  like  hours;  heat  and  weariness  are  really 
distressing.  At  last  Borasjan  comes  into  sight 
among  its  date-palms.  We  are  to  rest  here  and 
then  push  forward  to  Bushir  by  night,  avoiding 


436     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

the  heat.  The  kindly  English  telegraph-operator 
has  prepared  an  excellent  Itincheon,  and  does 
everything  to  make  us  comfortable.  What 
would  become  of  travellers  without  these  British 
Samaritans? 

It  is  past  eight  o'clock  and  very  bright — al- 
though the  moon  is  only  half  grown — when  we 
leave  for  Shif ,  where  we  are  to  take  a  boat  across 
the  bay  to  Bushir.  We  have  decided  to  let  our 
soldiers  from  Shiraz  go  directly  to  Bushir,  as 
accompanying  us  to  Shif  would  mean  many  extra 
miles  for  their  weary  horses ;  and  are  now  escorted 
by  five  gendarmes  whose  faces  I  cannot  clearly 
distinguish  in  this  vague  light.  It  is  warm,  but 
not  unpleasantly  so,  and  the  moon-flood  is  mellow 
across  the  plain.  As  we  ride  out  of  the  village, 
the  air  resounds  with  a  confused  noise  like  human 
voices  accompanied  by  rude  cymbals.  It  comes 
from  the  walled  palm  gardens  which  line  the  road ; 
so  I  suppose  it  to  be  discordant  music  at  some 
moonlight  festival.  It  appears  that,  in  every 
garden,  donkeys  are  drawing  the  water  to  fill 
the  irrigating  channels  and  moisten  the  sun- 
parched  earth ;  the  noise  we  hear  is  the  unimagin- 
able creaking  and  squeaking  of  the  apparatus 
which  pulls  the  buckets  up  the  deep  wells.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  find  anything  stranger  than 
these  harshly  festive  sounds  reaching  our  ears 
from  every  direction,  as  we  ride  between  the  clay 
walls  in  the  brilliance  of  the  moon. 

When  the  village  has  been  left  behind,  I  can 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  437 

just  perceive  an  earthy  plain  stretching  vaguely 
away  without  bounds — at  rare  intervals  dotted 
with  mud  villages  and  a  few  date-palms.  In 
this  dim  light  where  only  form  and  no  colour  can 
be  distinguished,  these  trees  really  do  look  like 
immense  feather-dusters.  I  feel  as  though  we 
must  be  riding  through  one  of  those  extraordinary 
countries  where  objects  of  utility  acquire  life; 
lands  like  the  one  which  in  Davy  and  the  Goblin 
so  charmed  my  childhood,  as  to  seem  to  this  day 
a  part  of  my  own  experience.  If  I  am  perhaps 
suffering  from  hallucinations  to-night,  it  is  not 
surprising.  Even  by  charitable  moonlight,  I 
can  make  out  the  utter  monotony  of  the  feature- 
less level — either  mud  or  baked  clay  according 
to  season — which  illimitably  surrounds  us.  The 
sight  of  it  irritates,  even  more  than  it  wearies, 
the  nerves;  to  add  to  my  misery,  drowsiness  has 
begun  to  seize  me.  At  Borasjan  thousands  of 
flies  prevented  me  from  so  much  as  closing  my 
eyes,  and  last  night  fleas,  mosquitoes,  heat,  and 
swallows,  accorded  me  only  a  few  hours'  doze. 
Now  an  irresistible  sleepiness  overpowers  me  like 
pain.  Do  what  I  will,  my  head  drops  and — for  a 
few  moments — I  move  along  swaying  from  side 
to  side,  until  a  sudden  lurch  rouses  me  just  in  time 
to  seize  the  pommel  and  keep  from  falling.  In 
the  hope  of  really  waking  myself,  I  get  off  and 
walk;  even  this  is  useless,  since  I  tramp  along  in 
a  kind  of  trance,  stumbling  over  the  ruts  formed 
by  dried  mule-prints.     The  only  thing  which  for 


438     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

a  few  seconds  shakes  off  this  painful  torpor,  is  my 
mule's  behaviour.  She  must  be  possessed  by 
forty  devils  to-night;  refusing  to  be  led,  she  drags 
behind  me  at  the  bridle-end,  then  shies  outrageously 
whenever  I  try  to  moimt.  Whether  swaying  in  the 
saddle,  or  marching  on  bruised  and  weary  feet, 
time  crawls  with  a  slowness  that  seems  an  added 
torment.  After  what  appears  to  be  an  endless 
space  of  time,  I  take  out  my  watch  only  to  find 
that  just  ten  minutes  have  elapsed  since  I  last 
looked;  there  are  hours,  and  still  more  hours  of 
travel  ahead  of  us.  The  Great  Bear  descends 
the  sky,  turning  over  as  it  circles  round  the  polar 
star;  its  progress,  only  perceptible  in  relation  to 
fixed  stars,  gives  an  irritating  measure  of  how  time 
seems  forever  halted. 

At  midnight  we  stop  to  rest  and  eat.  Lying 
on  the  baked  earth  in  the  ghostly  light,  with  noth- 
ing visible  but  the  dark  silhouette  of  our  animals 
in  a  void  expanse ;  I  feel  outside  the  world  in  some 
dim  gehenna.  After  a  few  agonised  moments, 
spent  on  my  back  trying  to  keep  my  eyes  from 
closing,  we  move  on.  The  yabu's  great  bell 
booms  and  jangles  about  the  tinkling  mule-bells. 
Boom,  crash!  Boom,  crash!  it  beats  in  on  my 
brain.  There  is  no  longer  any  hope  of  ending  this 
horrible  journey ;  time  must  have  ceased.  Fatigue 
and  perhaps  a  touch  of  fever  have  really  bred 
hallucinations,  for  nightmares  dance  before  me 
even  with  open  eyes.  The  moon  descends  the 
sky  among   nacrous  veils   swaying  strangely;  or 


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SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  439 

when  my  eyelids  suddenly  unclose,  I  see  fading 
outlines  of  mountain  peaks  traced  in  crimson  on 
the  grey  void  before  me.  Our  own  animals  and 
men  move  before,  behind,  or  beside  me,  like  visions 
in  the  dim  circles  of  Dante's  Hell.  Every  nerve 
and  muscle  aches,  and  I  am  almost  nauseated 
by  the  uncontrollable  rocking  of  my  drowsy  head. 
I  am  actually  living  one  of  those  tortured  dreams 
which  sometimes  makes  sleep  horrible. 

The  Great  Bear  now  lies  directly  under  the 
North  Star,  and  the  moon  has  almost  sunk  to  the 
vague  dimness  marking  the  horizon.  Every 
minute  its  light  lessens,  growing  greyer  and  more 
ghastly;  finally  its  wan  fragment  disappears  in 
the  formless  dark.  For  a  Uttle  we  move  along  in 
a  mere  ghost  of  light,  just  able  to  see  one  another 
and  the  track  before  us.  The  gendarmes  pass 
back  and  forth  beside  us  like  phantoms,  as  the 
light  becomes  fainter  and  still  more  faint.  Then 
darkness  closes  around  us — almost  a  relief.  Soon 
I  begin  to  look  eastward  eagerly,  hoping  to  discern 
the  pallor  of  "false  dawn";  but  the  dim  starry 
sky  obstinately  remains  without  change.  This 
slow  march  through  immeasurable  night,  seems 
an  eternal  torment.  When  all  hope  has  long  been 
dead,  a  greyness  begins  to  creep  along  the  eastern 
horizon,  and  slowly  mounts  the  sky.  Then  a 
white  luminosity  fills  all  the  heavens  eastward, 
giving  just  enough  light  to  see  where  we  are:  a 
level  rutty  plain  of  dried  mud,  bounded  by  a  low 
chain  of  dirty  brown  hills,  under  a  sky  absolutely 


440     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

lifeless  except  for  a  misty  glow  in  the  east.  A  more 
unlovely  scene  never  met  the  strained  gaze  of 
aching  travellers. 

Still  no  sign  of  Shif  as  the  light  increases,  al- 
ways without  life  or  colour — a  mere  ghost  of 
daybreak.  At  last,  over  a  slight  eminence  I  can 
descry  a  towered  caravanserai  on  the  sand  beside 
a  grey  sea.  I  dare  not  believe  it  to  be  our  destina- 
tion, but  before  long  we  ride  up  and  dismount 
among  bales  of  merchandise  piled  outside  the 
walls.  A  sail-boat  is  waiting  at  anchor  to  carry 
us  to  Bushir.  After  the  mules  have  been  un- 
loaded, and  the  luggage  carried  to  the  boat  on 
men's  backs,  we  ride  out  through  the  water  and 
climb  aboard.  At  first  a  feeble  wind  just  fills 
the  slanted  sail ;  but  before  long  the  men  are  obliged 
to  row  with  long  oars  of  primitive  shape.  As  the 
sun  is  now  up  and  beginning  to  burn,  a  small  sail 
is  rigged  across  the  stem  to  screen  us.  Lying 
here,  I  do  not  care  what  may  happen,  now  that 
I  have  reached  the  sea  and  can  escape  from  the 
country  which  for  so  many  years  I  dreamed  of 
visiting 

Bushir  is  in  sight — a  low  line  of  not  untidy 
houses  on  a  rounded  headland.  Clambering 
onto  the  dock,  amid  a  crowd  of  onlookers,  I 
regretfully  bid  farewell  to  my  courageous  fel- 
low-traveller who  is  to  visit  friends.  Then,  after 
seeing  my  kit  loaded  on  a  string  of  tiny  donkeys, 
I  get  into  a  real  carriage,  and  drive  seven 
miles  through    sandy  country,   in   sight  of  the 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  441 

vividly  blue-green  sea,  to  the  British  Residency 
at  Sabzabad. 


May  7*?^ 
The  Residency  is  a  huge  building  with  large 
high-ceilinged  rooms  behind  a  very  deep  veranda, 
which  always  keeps  them  in  shade.  It  is  filled 
with  well-trained  Indian  servants,  whose  quiet 
ways  and  spotless  white  clothes  seem  miraculous 
after  inefficient  Persians  in  frock-coats.  It  is 
situated  in  a  sandy  plain  (now  brown,  but  earlier 
in  the  year  green  with  crops)  dotted  with  palms 
and  a  feathery  green  tree — close  to  the  deep 
turquoise  waters  of  the  Persian  Gulf.  After  my 
long  and  distasteful  journey,  it  is  a  haven  of 
refuge,  which  pleasant  company,  interesting  con- 
versation, and  unlimited  hospitality,  enhance. 
The  Resident's  wife  is  a  splendid  example  of  the 
energy  and  unconscious  courage  which  make 
Englishwomen  in  far  parts  one  of  the  finest  types 
of  womanhood  to  be  met  with  anywhere.  Gently 
born  and  often  none  too  robust,  without  the 
stimulus  of  official  work,  separated  from  their 
children,  in  the  midst  of  impossible  climates  and 
conditions  those  at  home  cannot  even  conceive; 
they  maintain  an  unflinching  courage  and  inter- 
est in  life,  quite  beyond  praise.  Men  and  women 
alike,  these  British  exiles,  their  activities  often 
neglected  or  misjudged  by  Government,  are  the 
flower  of  their  race,  with  a  devotion  to  duty  and 


442     MOSCOW  TO  THE  PERSIAN  GULF 

a  high  standard  of  living  that  inspire  all  who  come 
in  contact  with  them. 


-  „_  May  ID*?* 

The  mail-steamer  for  Karachi  has  arrived,  and 
I  am  to  board  her  this  evening  to  avoid  a  midnight 
departure.  Leaving  my  best  wishes  with  those 
w^ho  have  made  my  last  days  in  Persia  memorable, 
I  start  for  Bushir  at  sundown.  A  scarlet  globe, 
much  flattened,  is  just  dipping  in  the  sea;  the 
sky  is  aflame  with  gold  and  bronze  that  seem  to 
siiffuse  the  air,  making  me  feel  as  though  moving 
through  a  haze  of  gold.  When  the  carriage 
reaches  the  wharf,  my  seven  donkeys — all  white 
except  one — have  trotted  up  to  the  sail-boat 
and  dropped  their  burdens.  The  boatmen  push 
off,  poling  through  shallow  water  for  a  long  dis- 
tance. At  last  I  am  leaving  Persia!  The  sun 
has  set;  near  the  horizon  the  sky  is  grey-green, 
but — after  passing  behind  bright  clouds — melts 
into  pale  lilac  where  one  star  hangs;  then,  above 
darker  smoke-coloured  clouds,  deepens  to  vivid 
blue.  The  men  have  hoisted  a  sail  that  no  wind 
fills,  and  are  rowing  with  long  oars  strangely 
shaped.  Night  is  gathering  as  we  glide  over  the 
now  breathless  sea,  across  which  the  distant  lights 
of  the  steamer  have  just  begun  to  shine.  Then 
the  moon  rises — a  dull  orange  disk,  trying  to 
break  through  black  clouds,  and  as  yet  casting 
no  light  on  the  dark  oily  water.     It  would  be 


SHIRAZ  TO  BUSHIR  443 

pleasant  to  feel  romatic — like  Loti — on  leaving 
Persia,  and  write  rosy  dithyrambs  about  cities 
of  "light  and  death"  bathed  in  the  diaphanous 
atmosphere  of  the  distant  uplands;  but  candour 
forces  me  to  admit  that  my  sensations  are  most 
unromantic.  The  foreground  of  my  consciousness 
is  filled  by  the  slowness  of  our  progress  through 
hot  and  stupefying  vapour,  the  rest  by  a  vivid 
remembrance  of  discomfort  and — what  is  worse — 
disappointment.  So  I  take  my  last  view  of  one 
more  illusion,  Persia — a  country  that  has  in  many 
ways  been  worth  the  visit,  but  one  that  I  hope 
heartily  never  to  see  again.  Whenever  in  the 
future  I  think  of  it,  among  the  memories  of  my 
three  months'  journey,  the  chief  place  will  always 
be  occupied  by  the  unfailing  kindness  and  hospi- 
tality of  English  men  and  women,  whom  I  had 
never  seen  before,  but  now  feel  honoured  to  call 
friends. 


INDEX 


Abada,  village,  310,  330 

'Abbas  Abad,  town,  171 ;  Chris- 
tian colony  of,  transported 
from  Georgia  by  Shah 
'Abbas,   172 

Achaemenian  kings,  349 

Afghan  fort,  285 

Afghanistan,  165 

Afrasiab,  heights,  39 

Agha  Muhammad  Khan,  the 
founder  of   Qajar  dynasty, 

197,  395 

Aghajan,  the  author's  guide, 
64 

Aharamazda  (Ormazd),  361, 
370,  372 

Ahawan,  the  pass  of,  203,  205 

Aiwan-i-Kayf,  village,  220, 221 

Alexander,  at  Oxus,  60;  march 
of,  192,  196;  in  pursuit  of 
Darius,  218-220;  likened  to 
Hermes  carved  by  Praxi- 
teles, 218 

Alghazall,  theologian,  114 

Alhaqq,  village,  177 

'Aliabad,  village,  212 

Aliaga,  All  Agha,  340 

'All  Baba  jars,  92 

'All  Qapa,  Sublime  Porte,  275- 
277 

Allverdi  Khan,  bridge  of,  268 

AUaha  Akbar,  God  is  Great, 
378 

Alph,  sacred  river,  37 

Aminabad,  314-315 

Amir,  199,  201-202;  Governor 
of  Samnan,  198,  205,  207- 
210 


'AmQ  Darya  (Oxus),  59 
Andarun,  women's  apartments, 

385 
Anan,  ruined  city,  63 
Antiochus  the  Great,  196 
Anushlrwan,  Khusraw  (Chos- 
roes    I.),    203-204;    forced 
the  Roman  Empire  to  pay 
tribute,    203;    expelled    the 
Abyssinians    from    Arabia, 
203 
Armenians,  employed  by  Brit- 
ish Government,  261 
Askabad,  description  of,  64 
Assyrian    silhouette,    the    ap- 
pearance of  Southern   Per- 
sians likened  to,  317 
Astarabad,  199 
Astyages,  King  of  Media,  350 

Bagh-i-Iram  (terrestrial  para- 
dise), garden,  396,  399 

Bagh-i-Naw,  396 

Bagh-i-Takht,  royal  garden  at 
Shiraz,  394-395 

Bahram  (Bahram  Governor), 
Sasanian  King,  368 

Bajgiran,  village,  80,  83 

Balalaikas,  musical  instru- 
ments, 13 

Bandamir,  Bendameer,  stream, 

375 
Bast,  sanctuary,  106 
Bayazld,  Safi  mystic,  185-186; 

citations  from,    187;  shrine 

of,  189 
Bibl  Khanum,  mosque  of,  36, 

37,  39,  40 


445 


446 


INDEX 


Borasjan,  village,  435,  437 
Bukhara,   description  of,   45- 

47 ;  streets  of,  47-48 ;  bazars 

of,    51;    costumes    of,    53; 

Registan     or     market-place 

at,  48-49 
Bushir,  436,  440,  442 
Bustara,   description  of,    187; 

shrine  of  Bayazld,  189 

Caspiae  Portae,  Caspian  gates 
through  which  Darius  fled 
before  Alexander,  218 

Caspian  Sea,  23,  69 

Chahar  Bagh,  avenue'  at  Is- 
fahan, 266-267 

Chai,  tea,  174 

Chai  khana,  tea-house,  85 

Charwadar,  muleteer,  288 

Chihil    Sutan,    throne    room, 

273-275 
Chinar,  plane  tree,  116 
Chinar-i-Rahdar,  village,  406 
Chingiz    Khan,    20,    196;    at 

Merv,  61 
Cyrus  the  Great,  the  image  of, 

351;  tomb  of,  350-351 

Dalaki  River,  432 
Dalaki,  village,  429,  434 
Damawand,  mount,  222 
Damghan,  birthplace  of  Path 
'Ali  Shah,  96;  citadel  at,  194; 
tomb  of  an  Imam  Zada  at, 
195;  scene  of  the  cruelties  of 
Antiochus,    Chingiz    Khan, 
Timflr  Lang,  and  Zaki  Khan, 
196 
Darius  Codomannus,  171 
Darius  Hystaspes,  tomb  of,  362 
Dasht-i-Arzhan,  village,  410- 

412 
Dihabad,  village,  260 
Dihbid,  village,  342,  345-347 
Dih-i-Ntth,  village,  349 
Dilgusha   Bagh,  garden,   394, 

404 
Dyer's  gate,  of  Nlshapflr,  132 

Ecbatana,  Hamadan,  196 


Farldu'd   Din    'Attar,   Shiykh 

'Attar,    verses    from,     137; 

tomb  of,  138 
Farrash,  officer,  104 
Fars,    modern    name    of    the 

province  of  Persis,  3S3 
Farsakh,    a   distance    of    four 

miles,  95,  99,  154 
Fath  'All  Shah,  108,  134,  197; 

mosque  of,  208,  209 
Fatima,    shrine    of,    built    by 

Shah  Abbas,  129 
FirangI,  European,  96 
Firdawsl,    112;  tomb  of,   113; 

city  of,  114 
Fourgon,  rude  waggon,  170 

Cached,  incased  in  plaster,  252 
Garden  of  the  Forty  Dervishes, 

392 
Garden  of  the  Seven  Dervishes, 

401,  402 
Gazelles,  summit  of  a  defile, 

203 
Ghazni,  city  of  Mahmfld,  112 
Ghulam,  servant,  311 
Great  Moghal,  95 
Gulshan,  flower  garden,  398- 

399 

Hafiz  of  Shiraz,  378;  tomb  of, 

389-391 
Hajl     'Abbas,     the     author's 

muleteer,  301 
Haji  Baba   (Morier;  see    the 

following),    165 
Haji  Baba  of  Ispahan,  novel, 

125 
Hawz,  tank,  50 
Hecatompylos,  195 
Husayn,    the    author's    guide 

and  interpreter,  236 

Imam  Qull,  post-station,  86 

Imam  Rida,  shrine,  103,  106, 
129,  203 

Imam  Zada,  tomb  of,  at  Dam- 
ghan, 195 

Imam  Zada-i-MahrQq,  Mosque 
of,  138 


INDEX 


447 


Iraq,  171  ' 
Iran,  Persia,  81 
Isfahan,    capital    of    Safavid 
dynasty,  265 

1.  Chahar  Bagh,  avenue 
at,  266,  267 

2.  Madrasa  (university) 
of  Shah  Husayn  at,  267 

3.  Bridge  of  'Aliverdi 
Khan  at,  268 

4.  Bazars  of,  269 

5.  Maidan-i-Shah,  square 
at,  269 

6.  Masjid-i-Shah,  mosque 
at,  269,  270 

7.  Lutf  Allah,  mosque  at, 
270 

8.  Chihil  Sutan,  forty 
pillars,  throne  room 
built  by  Shah  Abbas  at, 

273-275 

9.  'All  QapQ,  Sublime 
Porte  at,  275-277 

10.  Nawruz     festival     at, 
280-284 
Isfahan!,  people  of  Isfahan,  287 
Iskandar,  Alexander,  128 
Ispahan,  see  Isfahan,  125 
Ivan  Grosny  the  Terrible,  5; 
church  of,  5 

Jalalu'd-Din  RumI,  138 
Jami,  verse  from,  250 
Julfa,  Armenian  quarters,   at 
Isfahan,  281 

Kabjan  Mosque,  in  Bukhara, 

55,  59 
Kabul,  165 

Kabyles,  Berbers  of  Algeria,  93 
Kagan,  city,  44,  59 
Kajawa,    a    litter    borne    by 

beasts  of  burden,  238 
Kamarij,  village,  423 
Karachi,  author  taking  steamer 

for,  442 
Karbala,  burial  place  of  'All's 

son,  Husayn,  in  Iraq,  238 
Karim     Khan,     Governor    of 

Pars,  383;  palace  of,  383- 


385;      Andarfln,      women's 

apartments  of,  385 
Kasan,  station,  4 
Kashaf  Rfld,  Tortoise  Stream, 

112 
Kashan,  city,  255 
Kashghar,  a  tribe,  called  after 

the  city  of  that  name,  427 
Kay  Khusraw  (identified  with 

Cyrus),  354 
KazarQn,  town,  417,  419,  420; 

bas-reliefs    of    Shapflr    at, 

420-421 
Khabardar,  look  out!,  278 
Khafr,  village,  262 
Khan,  great  chief,  234 
Khan-i-Khora,  339,  342 
Khan-i-Zinian,    village,    408— 

410 
Khanum,  lady,  399 
Khokand,  44,  49 
Khurasan,  95,  iii,  123,  171 
Khusrawgird,    village,    minar 

of,  153 
Khusraw,  Anflshirwan,  203 
Kinara,  village,  358,  374 
Kirghiz    Cossacks,    15;   flocks 

of,    19;   complexion   of   the 

people  of,  20;  dwellings  of, 

22,  23 
Konar  Takhtl,  village,  429 
Krasnaya  Square,  4 
Krasnovodsk,  city,  64,  69 
Kremlin,  city,  4,  5 
Kubla  Khan,  Mongol  ruler,  37 
Kuchan,  town,  90,  95;  shops  of, 

97 
Kufic,  ancient  Arabic  charac- 
ters, 28,  37 
Kutal,  mountain  pass,  414 
Kutal-i-Dukhtar,  a  pass,  417 
Kutal-i-Kamarij,  a  pass,  424 
Kutal-i-Malu,  a  pass,  430 

Laila,  MajnQn's  beloved,  137 

Lasgird,  town,  211 

LotI,  not  allowed  inside  Is- 
fahan, 281;  enjoyed  his  first 
view  of  Isfahan,  295;  rode 
to  see  the  roses  of  Isfahan, 


448 


INDEX 


Loti —  Continued 

296;  refers  to  Yazdikhast, 
323;  mentions  the  walls  of 
Shulgistcan,  327;  his  Ver 
Isfahan,  328 ;  refers  to  travel 
in  Persia,  329 

Lutf  Allah  Mosque,  at  Isfahan, 
270 

Madrasa,  university,  249 

Mahmud,  King,  112 

Mahyar,  village,  302,  303 

Maidan,  square,  96 

Maidan-i-Shah,  a  square  at 
Isfahan,  269 

Maidan-i-Tup,  artUlery- 

ground,  223 

Majnun,  the  lover  of  Laila,  137 

Manzariyyah,  town,  243 

Maracanda,  town,  39 

Marlowe's  Vision  of  Tantbur- 
lane,  31 

Mashhad,  description  of,  103; 
bazars  of,  105;  shrine  of 
Imam  Rida  at,  106,  107; 
Governor  of,  and  his  audi- 
ence to  the  author,  109,  110 

Masjid-i-Shah,  a  mosque  at 
Isfahan,  269,  270 

Matuschka  or  Little  Mother 
Volga,  13 

Mazlnan,  town,  168 

Merv,  city,  21,  61 

Mervdasht,  plain  of,  358,  359, 
365,  372 

Mianial,  village,  175,  183 

Mian  Kutal,  a  pass,  414-416 

Mihr,  plain  of,  164 

Mongolian,  type  of  men,  12,  20 

Moscow,  69 

Moskva  River,  5 

Most,  curds  or  matzfln,  134 

Muhammad  'All  Shah,  207 

Mullas,  Muhammedan  priests, 
106 

Munshi,  secretary,  288 

Murchikhurt,  village,  263 

Murghab,  plain  of,  349,  351, 

,  354 

MuzaflFaru'd-Din  Shah,  249 


Nadir  Qull  Khan,  Nadir  Shah, 

95.  196 
Na'ib,  lieutenant,  237 
Naqsh-i-Rajab,  description  of, 

365;  Sasanian  sculptures  at, 

365 

Naqsh-i-Rustam,  description 
of,  361 ;  royal  tombs  at,  362; 
Sasanian  bas-reliefs  at,  362 

Narband,  witch  elm,  138 

NawrQz,  New  Year,  264;  cele- 
bration of,  at  Isfahan,  280 

NishapQr,  Governor's  house 
at,  132,  133;  Persian  dinner 
by  the  Governor  of ,  134,  135; 
tomb  of  Sheikh  'Attar  at, 
138;  tomb  of  'Umar  Khay- 
yam near,  138-140 

Nusherwan,  AnQshlrwan,  Sas- 
anian King,  204;  Sa'dl's 
praise  of,  204 

Orenburg,  city,  15 
Oxus,  60 

Panathenaic  festival,  219 
Parsis,  Zoroastrians,  222 
Parthenon,  219 
Pasargadae,    location   of,   349; 

first  capital  of  Persia,  350; 

tomb    of    Cyrus    at,    350; 

inscriptions  of  Cyrus  at,  351 ; 

sculptures  of  Cyrus  at,  351 
Peacock  Throne,  234 
Perovsk,  city,  20 
Persepolis,  description  of,  365- 

367,  374;  immense  platform 

of,  367;  royal  tombs  at,  367, 

368;   palaces  of  Darius  and 

Xerxes  at,  367,  368 
Persia,     conveyances    of,    73; 

post-horses  of,  86 ;  soldiers  of, 

94 
Petersburg,  24 
Pilaw,  a  dish  of  rice,  135 
Pul-i-Abrasham,  bridge,  171 
Pul-i-KhajQ,  bridge,  283 
Push  tins,     leather    overcoats, 

87 


INDEX 


449 


Qadamgah,  village,  location  of, 
129;  Imam  Rida's  shrine  at, 
129-130 
Qadirabad,  village,  347 
Qal'a-i-Shur,  village,  297 
Qalyun,  water  pipe,  no 
Qiran,  coin,  about  ten  cents,  66 
Qishlaq,  post-station,  215,  217 
Qum,  city  where  the  shrine  of 
Fatima,     sister     of     Imam 
Rida,  is  situated,  236 
Qumisha,  town,  description  of, 
308,  309;  graveyard  of,  309 
Qur'an,  138 

Ray  (Ragha),  222 

Registan,    a    market-place    in 

Samarqand,  33,   40,  48;  in 

Bukhara,  48,  49 
Ribat-i-Za'faranI,   the  Saflfron 

guard-house,  145 
Ribat  of  Anushlrwan,  203 
Rimsky-Korsakov's  legendary 

operas,  175 
Rishta,  guinea-worm,  50 
Rivand,  village,  158 
Royal   Palace,  description   of, 

234 
Rudbar  Gate,  Indigo,  113 
Ruknabad,  brook,  377,  378 
Russia,  carriages  of,  3;  archi- 
tecture of,  7;  crows  of,  10; 
roubles  of,  66;  officialdom  of, 
67,  69,  79;  Cossacks  of,  70, 
74,  78,  96,  98,  99,  105,  106; 
disturbances    of,    82,     134; 
Consul  of,  123,  124 
Rustam,  represented  as  slay- 
ing the  White  Div,  208 
Ruy     Gonzalez     de     Clavijo, 
embassador,  31 

Sabzabad,     British    residency 

at,  441 
Sabzawar,  town,  76;  bazar  of, 

146;  Governor  of,   146-148, 

150,  151,  161 
Sa'dl,  tomb  of,  394,  403 
Said,    the    author's    Algerian 

valet,  4 


Samarqand,  city,  3,  28,  36,  39, 
41 »  53,  56,  107;  modern 
Samarqand,  24;  monuments 
of,  25;  two  peculiarities  of, 
32 ;  mosques  of ,  35,  49 ;  archi- 
tecture of,  50;  carts  of,  52 

Samnan,  city,  205,  210;  Amir 
of,  205-207;  MuUas  of,  tol- 
erant, 209;  Imam  Zada's 
shrine  at,  209 

Sardara  Pass,  identified  with 
Caspice  Portas,  218 

Sarths,  22,  23,  63;  at  prayer,  36 

Sayyids,  descendants  of  Mu- 
hammad, from  his  daughter 
Fatima,  by  'All,  278 

Shah  'Abbas,  116,  128,  129, 
145,  172,  176,  203 

Shah    'Abdu'l    'Azim,    shrine, 

237 
Shahrud,  town,  183,  184,  205; 

Amir  of,  185,  186,  190 
Shah's    Salam,     New    Year's 

reception,  232,  233 
Shah  Zinda  Mosque,  37,  38 
Shaitan,  the  devil,  181 
Shapur,   Sasanian  King,  362; 

bas-reliefs  of,  420,  421 
Sharifabad,  village,  221 
Sheykh    'Attar,   see  Parldu'd- 

Din  'Attar,  tomb  of,  138 
Shi'a,  traditional  sect  of  Islam, 

93 

Shif,  near  Bushir,  436,  440 

Shi'ite,  member  of  Shi'a  sect, 
96,  129,  136,  202 

Shimran,  loi,  124 

Shiraz,  location  of,  377;  bazars 
of,  387;  tomb  of  Hafiz  at, 
389-391;  gardens  of,  392- 
398;  tomb  of  Sa'dl  at,  394, 
403;  beauty  of,  398,  402-404 

Shlrazi,  a  person  from  Shiraz, 
404 

Shir  in,  consort  of  Khusraw 
Parwiz,  137 

Shulgistan,  324 

Sivand,  village,  356,  374 

Sizran,  city,  12 

Sohrab  and  Rustam,  59 


450 


INDEX 


Sudkhwar,  city,  i6i,  165 

SQfi,  137,  138 

Sultanabad,  city,  243 

Sunnite,  orthodox  Muhamme- 
dan,  136-139 

Surmak,  village,  332;  de- 
scription of,  332-4 

Suwar,  soldier,  1 1 1 

Tabriz,  city,  106,  199 
TabrizI,  a  person  from  Tabriz, 

389 

Takht-i-Jamshid,  name  of  the 
platform  at  Persepolis,  368 

Takht-i-Sulaiman,  throne  of 
Solomon,  at  Mashhad-i- 
Murghab,  349 

Talar,  portico,  271,  285-287 

Tang-i-AUahu  Akbar,  name  of 
a  pass,  378 

Tang-i-Bulaghl,  rock-hewn 
causeway,  354 

Tang-i-Turkan,  a  gorge,  422 

Tartar,  women  of,  20;  general 
of,  40 

Tashkent,  city,  21,  22,  60 

Tchernyayevo,  23 

Tihran,  description  of,  227; 
policy  of  England  and 
Russia  at,  227-228;  Ameri- 
can Mission  School  at,  228- 
229;  dignity  of  the  British 
legation  at,  229;  undignified 
standard  of  the  American 
legation  at,  230-1 

Tillah  Kari's  Mosque,  40 

TimQr  (Timor  Lang,  Tamer- 
lane, Tamburlaine),  Tartar 
ruler,  20,  iii,  178;  Samar- 
qand,  his  capital,  24,  25; 
Samarqand,  his  birthplace, 
31;  the  mosque  he  built  for 
his  wife  at  Samarqand,  36; 
Timor,  name  of  Colonel  B.'s 
orderly,  389 

Tomb  of  Cyrus,  348,  353; 
erroneously  called  the  tomb 
of  the  Mother  of  Solomon, 
352;  Aristobulus's  account 
of  it,  352 


Tomb  of  Darius  Hystaspes, 
362-4 

Tortoise,  Kashaf  Rud,  112 

Troitsco-Sergiyevskaya  Lavra 
Monastery,  6 

Tufangchi,  road  guard  or  rifle- 
man, 301 

Tuman,  coin,  about  one  dollar, 
288 

Tunis,  bazars  of,  46 

Turkestan,  20 

Turkish  journalist,  164,  165 

Turkomen,  costume  of,  63,  64; 
raids  of,  165 

Tus,  ruins  of,  112,  114;  river 
of,  112;  gate  of,  113;  tomb 
of  Firdawsl  at,  113;  citadel 
of,  114,  115 

'Umar  Khayyam,  104,111,132; 

tomb  of,  136,  138-140;  verses 

of,  169 
'Umayyad  Khalifs,  cursed  by 

Shi'ites,  250 

Vasily  Bias  jenny  Church,  4 
Volga  River,  13 

Xanadu,    imaginary    city    of 

Kubla  Khan,  2>7 
Xerxes,  portico  of,  367;  palace 

of,  368 

Ya  'All,  invocation  of  'All  for 

assistance,  202 
YabQ,  pack-horse,  438 
Yazd,  city,  393 
Yazdikha'st,  village,  approach 

to,  318,  319;  description  of, 

322,  323 

Zaki  Khan,  196 

Zarathustra,    Zoroaster,    364; 

symbol  of,  370,  372 
Zarghan,  description  of,  375, 

376  ^      . 

Zoroastrian  literature  referring 

to  the  plain  of  Milu;,  164 


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